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The  Conceits  of  a 

General  Lover 

By  Edward  W.  Barnard 


ART! 


ERI- 
TATI 


BOSTON 

Richard   G.   Badger 

The   Gorham  Press 


Copyright  1903,  by  Edward  W.  Barnard. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


With  a  few  exceptions  these  verses  are  familiar  to  at  least  •  part  of 
the  Public.  The  Author's  grateful  acknowledgment  is  due  the 
Editors  and  Publishers  of  The  Bookman,  Browning*  s  Magazine,  The 
Criterion,  The  Critic,  Judge,  The  Land  of  Sunshine,  (now  Out  Wtsi) 
Ltslie's  Weekly,  Life,  (New  York)  Life,  (Brooklyn)  Liffincott's,  The 
Literary  World,  The  Munsty,  The  Nciv  England  Magazine,  Outing, 
The  Pbilisttnt,  Puck,  The  Smart  Set,  Toivn  Topics,  The  Transcript, 
(Boston)  Truth,  Vogue  and  What  To  Eat,  for  their  courtesy  in  per 
mitting  the  re-print  of  those  lines  which  first  appeared  in  their  columns; 
also  to  Messrs.  Oliver  Ditson  &  Co.,  Boston,  for  the  privilege  of  using 
the  words  of  the  songs  "Falila"  and  "I  Didn't  Mean  To,"  published 
by  them.  The  collection  includes  as  well  contributions  to  Chips,  The 
Fly  Leaf,  Godey* s  Magazine,  The  Jester,  (Boston),  Kate  Field's 
Washington,  The  Lotus,  and  other  Journals  of  lesser  note  now  defunct. 


Printed  at  The  Gorham  Press,  Boston. 


To 

Flora 

Loyal  Friend, 
Devoted  Sweetheart  and 

Ideal  Wife— 

this  Book  is  Lovingly 

Dedicated 


Much  Memory — more  Imitation; — 
Some  Accidents  of  Inspiration; — 
Some  Essays  in  that  finer  Fashion 
Where  Fancy  takes  the  place  of  Passion; — 
And  some  (of  course]  more  roughly  wrought 
To  catch  the  Advocates  of  Thought. 

— Austin  Dobson. 


Oh  j  for  the  Poet-Voice  that  swells 

To  lofty  truths,  or  noble  curses  — 
/  only  wear  the  cap  and  bells, 

And  yet  some  Tears  are  in  my  verses. 
I  softly  trill  my  sparrow  reed,, 

Pleased  if  but  One  should  like  the  twitter; 
Humbly  I  lay  it  down  to  heed 

A  music  or  a  minstrel  fitter. 

— Frederick  Locker. 


CONTENTS 

CELEBRATING  MINE  OWN 

Flora's  Playing     -  15 

A  Fair  Example  i  5 

Anacreontics  1 6 

Falila  1 7 

To  My  Affianced  i  8 

To  an  Old  Year  and  a  New    -  1 9 

Consistency  20 

When  Stella  Came      -  20 

What  Stella  Sees  2 1 

I  Didn't  Mean  To!   -  22 

A  Small  and  Early  23 

The  Measure  of  Stella's  Love  24 

A  Typical  Sunday  25 

A  Lenten  Ballad  26 

IN  DIVERS  MOODS 

Consolation  .  3 1 

Impressions  3 1 

Heart  of  the  Woods  32 

When  Middle  Age  Has  Older  Grown    -  32 

Le  Calme  3  3 

At  the  End  34 

To  a  Little  Apostate:  Aetat  Seven  35 

The  New  Circe  36 

Bitter  Memories  36 

Betty  to  Herself  37 

On  New  Year's  Eve  38 

Old  Valentines  39 
A  Winter  Song    -                                              -         40 

A  Ballad  of  Old  Skates  4 1 
For  the  Eye  of  Hortense  -                              -         42 

Of  Gretchen,  Who  Comes  With  the  Ale  43 


LITTLE  FLINGS  AT  LITTLE  FOLLIES 

His  Waterloo        -  -47 

The  Deduction  of  Misogynist  47 
Where  Culture  Failed         -                               -         47 

Hairless  and  Heirless  48 

A  Misconstruction  48 

If  John  Alden  Came  to  New  England  49 
Assertion  and  Proof                                            -         49 

An  Awakening  50 

Three  Old  Birds  50 

There's  a  Time  for  Everything  50 

A  Father  Speaks  5  i 

A  Verification  5  i 

Two  on  the  Camel  5  2 

The  Omnipresent  Pessimist    -  53 

The  First  Clouds  5  3 

On  Circumstantial  Evidence     -  54 

Ceramic   Melancholy  54 

The  Old  and  the  New  Athenian  5  5 

The  Clothing  of  Cupid      -  56 

February  Weather      -  5  7 

In  the  Age  of  Fancy  Bosoms  58 

A  Tale  of  Three  Cities  59 

Average  People    -  60 

Little  Lyrics  of  Sorrow  6 1 

Emancipated  62 

The  Matron  Soliloquizes  6  3 

The  Confession  of  a  Mean  Man      -  65 

To  G.  W.  on  His  Birthday  66 

An  Easter  Soliloquy  66 

A  Forecast    -  67 

An  Even  Thing  -  68 

A  Lay  of  Modern  Millinery    -  69 

Upon  Saying  Good-bye       -  70 

Reversing  the  Positions  7  i 

Exercising  Their  Prerogative  72 


Making  Her  Task  Easy  73 

The  Questions  of  the  Day  73 

The  Division  of  a  Thanksgiving  Bird     -  74 

Past,  Future  and  Present    -  75 

Winter  Sports  —  A  Contrast   -  76 

An  Appreciation  -  77 

THE  CONCEITS  OF  A  GENERAL  LOVER 

\^  inter  Roses  8  i 

Leigh  Hunt  Revised  -         8 1 

In  Doubt      -  $  i 

The  Captious  Fair  ^2 

Her  Valentines:  1898-9  -:z 

A  Drive  and  Its  Consequence  -13 

How  Times  Have  Changed!  -  ^3 

The  Thrift  of  Alicia  84 

The  Conceit  of  a  General  Lover  ^4 

The  Proxy  of  a  Saint  -         85 

At  the  February  Tea-Party      -  87 

A  Lenten  Wish    -  87 

At  Vespers  88 

Natalie  Looks  Forward      -  89 

At  Easter  89 

A  Plan  that  Worked  too  Well  -         90 

A  Lenten  Address  to  Cavillers  91 

Where  I  Come  In  92 

Of  April  Sunshine       -  93 

The  Ways  of  Blanche  in  Spring  -         94 

A  Song  of  Seedtime  95 

Urbs  in  Rure—  A  Moving  Tale        -  96 

Upon  Bernice  in  May  97 

A  Small  Admission  -         97 

Hazards       -  98 

Lines  to  Hortense  in  June  -  -         99 

Showing  Cause  I  oo 

The  Magic  of  Drusilla  100 


Of  Summer  Reading  101 

The  Little  One  Man  Wants  -       102 

Polliette  on  Thanksgiving  103 

An  Avatar  of  Yule  -       1 04 

The  Transit  of  Mars  105 

Mary's  Spinet       -  -       106 

The  Specialty  of  Prue  107 

The  Lover  Finds  a  Way  -       108 

Heigho!         -  109 

An  Aggravated  Case  -       i  I  o 

The  Ballad  of  an  Ultra  Girl  I  i  i 

SONNETS 

Patience  -         1 5 

Indifference    -  i  5 

Ingratitude  -         1 6 

Diana's  Baths  16 

Sea  Downs  i  7 

The  Road  to  "Paradise"  17 

In  Autumn  Lanes  i  8 

When  Winter  Widows  All  the  North    -  1 8 

Palmistry  1 9 

La  Coupd'Essai  19 

Spring     -  20 

The  Sop  to  Cerberus  20 

To  Constance  in  a  Picture  Hat  2  I 

To  Constance  on  All  -  Hallow  Eve  2  i 

La  Chrysantheme  -       122 

The  Dyspeptic  to  His  Familiar  122 

To  a  Wishbone     -  -       123 

A  New  Year  Sonnet  in  Dialogue  124 

IN  GALLIC  BONDS 

Quatrains      -  -127 

Unrecognized  I  2  7 


Wolf!  Wolf!  -      127 

A  Modern  Instance  127 

A  Marital  Necessity  -       127 

On  a  Poetaster  127 

An  Optimistic  Tailor  -       128 

The  Influence  of  Art  128 

And  There  Are  Others  -       128 

The  Power  of  Slang  -  128 

The  Nation's  Birthday  -  and  Mabel's  -       128 

Triolets 

WTinter   Violets  129 

Hope  Springs  Eternal  -       129 

Converts       -  130 

Rondels 

On  Her  Kitchen  Apron     -  -131 
When  Wound  a  Forester  so  Blithe  a  Horn?          i  3  i 

Rondeaus 

Reflections    -  132 

My  Chiffonier  -       132 

The  High  Coiffure  i  3  3 

To  Skate  with  Hermia  -       133 

An   Explanation  I  34 

To  Bernice  in  Lent  -       134 

On  Myra's  Heart  I  35 

What  Harrie  Said  -       135 

When  the  Kiss  Had  Been  Taken  136 

The  Tea  She  Brews  -       136 

Of  a  Fancy  Skater  137 

Has  Lent  a  Charm?  -       137 

As  Grace  Unpacked   -  138 

What  Could  She  Do?  -       138 


A  Dissembler  I  39 

The  Maidens  to  St.    Valentine  139 

Two   Rondeaus  140 

As  the  World  Goes  141 

Randeau  Redouble 

Under  White  Apple  Boughs     -  142 

Pantoum 

The  Tribulations  of  Tryphena  143 

BALLADES 

Ballade  of  Entreaty     -  147 

Ballade  of  Longing  148 

Ballade  des  Papillons  149 

Ballade  of  Modern  Love      -  i  50 

Ballade  of  the   Tenth  Muse       -  151 
Ballade  of  Chivalry                -                               -152 

Ballade  of  Many  Loves     -  153 

Ballade  for  Bedtime    -  554 

Ballade  of  Frocks  and  Pinafores  i  5  5 

Ballade  of  Acadie        -  156 

Ballade  of  Annisquam         -  557 

Ballade  of  the  Golden  State  '  58 

Ballade  of  Falila  and  Western  Days  •  ,9 

Ballade  of  the  Avenue  160 

Ballade  of  March  Winds  6 1 

Ballade  of  the  Borrower  Month  62 

Ballade  of  April  Weather  -  163 

Ballade  of  Shrovetide  ;  64 

Ballade  of  a  Summer  Night  165 

Ballade  of  Blue  Seas  166 

Ballade  of  a  City  Bower    -  167 

Ballade  of  the  Summer  Park     -  168 


Ballade  of  the  Yacht  169 

Ballade  of  October  Dusk  170 

Ballade  of  Thanksgiving     -  171 

Ballade  of  the  Mistletoe  Bough  172 

Ballade  of  White  Year        -  173 

Ballade  against  the  Utopian  Screed  174 

Ballade  of  the  Reviewer      -  175 

Ballade  of  Current  Fiction        -  176 

Ballade  of  the  Contemporaneous  Drama  177 

Ballade  of  Her  Bonbonniere     -  178 

Ballade  of  Business  Letters  179 

Ballade  of  Age  and  Youth  180 

Ballade  of  Snobs  1 8  i 

Ballade  of  a  Modern  Witch  182 

Ballade  Penseroso  183 

Ballade  of  the  Snowdrop  i  84 
Ballade  of  the  Evergreen  and  True  Friendship      I  8  5 

Ballade  of  the  Song  and  the  Plaint  186 


"More  Poets  yet  /" — I  hear  him  say, 
Arming  his  heavy  band  to  slay; — 

"Despite  my  skill  and  'swashing  blow? 

They  seem  to  sprout  where1  er  I  go; — 
/  killed  a  host  but  yesterday  !" 

Slash  on,  O  Hercules  !      Tou  may. 
Tour  task1  s,  at  best,  a  Hydra-fray; 

And  though  TOU  cut,  not  less  will  grow 
More  Poets  yet! 

Too  arrogant !      For  who  shall  stay 
The  first  blind  motions  of  the  May? 

Who  shall  out-blot  the  morning  glow? — 
Or  stem  the  full  heart's  overflow? 
Who?      There  will  rise,  till  Time  decay, 
More  Poets  yet ! 

— Austin  Dobson. 


CELEBRATING    MINE   OWN 


FLORA'S  PLAYING 

She  played.      Apart  we  sat  in  rapt  delight, 
All  chatter  hushed  and  gossip  put  to  flight. 

What  was  the  piece  ?      I  really  forget ! 

A  fugue  perhaps,  a  nocturne,  canzonet — 
In  music-lore  I  am  no  learned  wight ! 

But  this  I  know,  withal  my  learning's  slight, 
Deft  was  her  execution  and  aright; 
And  later,  in  a  rollicking  duet 
She  played  a  part. 

All  done,  she  turned  about,  and  then  despite 
The  distance  of  my  seat  —  distracting  plight — 
I  caught  a  flash  of  lace,  a  gleam  of  jet  — 
A  long-drawn,  sweet,  deep  sigh — our  eyes  had  met 
And  in  all  Life's  best  things  from  that  dear  night, 
She  played  a  part! 

A  FAIR  EXAMPLE 

Add  to  the  thousand  little  lights 

That  play  in  Flora's  hair, 
The  thousand  thousand  in  her  eyes 

That  burn  so  constant  there: 

To  these  the  marble  curves  of  brow 

And  neck,  the  warmer  lines 
Of  ears  transparent,  delicate, — 

Shells  set  in  sunny  shrines. 

To  these  the  milk-white  seeds  that  gleam 

In  her  pomegranate  mouth 
That  speaks  with  such  a  winning  lisp 

The  language  of  the  South. 


Set  down  the  dimples,  if  you  can 

Count  such  elusive  things, 
That  twinkle  in  her  cheeks,  as  in 

Her  sky,  the  lamps  Night  brings. 

Then  choose  a  figure  to  express 

The  amplitude  of  hers, 
(A  graceful  one  of  speech  will  serve 

So  it  but  truth  avers.  ) 

And  if  in  summing  you  are  skilled 

A  deal  or  not  at  all, 
The  footing  of  these  myriad  charms 

You'll  find  is  very  small 

ANACREONTICS 
Dele  from  the  pledge  my  name, 
Writhing  'neath  a  drift  of  blame, 
Where  but  now  I  wrote  it  fair. 
When  my  hand  inscribed  it  there 
My  slow  eyes  had  not  beheld 
Flora's  charms.      The  mist  dispelled, 
Now,  though  all  light  fades  from  mine, 
From  her  eyes  I'll  drink  the  wine! 

Dele  from  your  scroll  my  name. 
Blot  it  out,  nor  cry  me  shame. 
Prate  not  of  sobriety — 
Prithee,  what's  your  cant  to  me? 
I'll  be  sworn  that  you  must  needs 
Fashion  more  alluring  creeds 
Ere  less  oft  her  lover  sips 
The  red  wine  of  Flora's  lips! 


16 


Drop  my  name,  and  in  its  place 

Put  some  wight's  whom  Flora's  face 

Has  not  turned  a  Bacchanal. 

I  see  but  equivocal 

Virtue  in  your  abstinence 

When  such  eyes  and  lips  dispense, 

Cheering  as  the  blue  above, 

The  life-giving  wine  of  love. 

FALILA 

(SONG) 
Once  I  worshipped  orbs  of  blue, 

Falila, 
'Twas  long,  long  ere  I  knew  you, 

I  would  say, 

For  since  in  your  deep,  dark  eyes 
Cupid  took  me  by  surprise, 
Not  a  charm  in  others  lies 

Falila. 
Theirs  is  dear  and  constant  light 

Falila, 
That  transcends  the  stars  of  night 

As  the  day, 

And  the  blue  eyes  cease  to  be 
Limpid  lakes  of  witchery 
When  they  softly  beam  on  me, 

Falila. 

Refrain  :       Falila,  Falila,  dear  Falila,. 

Coy,  unassuming,  unvain : 
Love  does  not  blind  us  as  sage  fe hows  say 

But  rather  makes  Beauty  more  plain, 

Once  I  held  the  golden  hair, 
Falila, 


Beautiful  beyond  compare, 

But  to-day 

In  your  wealth  of  tresses  brown 
I  behold  a  fairer  crown 
Fitter  far  for  world  renown 

Falila. 
Yet  if  Fate  had  giv'n  in  place 

Falila, 
Of  dark  eyes  and  gypsy  grace, 

Sweet  as  they, 

Golden  hair  and  eyes  of  blue, 
To  first  tenets  I'd  been  true 
Seeing  so  much  good  in  you, 

Falila. 

Refrain :      Falila,  Falila,  dear  Falila, 

Coy,  unassuming,  unvain . 
Love  does  not  blind  us  as  sage  fellows  say 

But  rather  makes  Beauty  more  plain, 

TO  MY  AFFIANCED 

Should  you  fail  me,  O  dear  heart! 

What  were  then  Life's  pleasance  to  me? 
Smile,  with  hope  my  pulses  start; 

Frown,  my  sweet,  and  you  undo  me. 
Let  all  good  of  Earth  be  mine, 

What  would  gold  and  fame  avail  me? 
Nectar  would  be  dregs  of  wine, 
Should  you  fail  me! 

Should  you  fail  me,  O  dear  heart! 

Cursed  would  be  the  years  I  knew  you: 
Cursed  the  days  from  you  apart, 

When  in  dreams  I  came  to  woo  you. 


I  would  sorrow  and  repine 

Though  men  as  their  chief  might  hail  me: 
Ah !  the  sun  would  cease  to  shine 
Should  you  fail  me! 

Should  you  fail  me?  No,  dear  heart! 

God  and  fate  together  drew  us. 
We'll  be  true  through  smile  and  smart 

While  the  life-blood  courses  through  us. 
Though  our  day  to  dark  decline, 

Doubts  of  you  shall  ne'er  assail  me: 
Love  to  Lust  will  sell  its  shrine 
Ere  you  fail  me! 

TO  AN  OLD  YEAR  AND  A  NEW 

Good-bye  old  year  that  wert  so  kind, 

You  leave  me  richer  far  to-night 
In  all  the  goods  the  world  holds  dear 

Than  when  you  gladdened  first  my  sight. 
Indulgently  you  granted,  too, 

A  tittle  of  the  fame  I  sought; 
But,  greater  than  repute  or  pelf, 

Another  treasure  still  you  brought, 
And  when  I  speak  of  you  I'll  say: 
"The  year  that  gave  me  Falila." 

And  you,  wee  stranger,  at  the  gate 

Whom  presently  we  must  let  in, 
How  shall  one  have  his  welcome  run 

Your  favor  and  your  smiles  to  win? 
A  greeting!      May  it  be  your  will 

To  keep  us  as  you  find  us,  blest; 
But  if  to  me,  so  happy  now, 

Some  measure  of  distress  seems  best, 
Take  gold  and  name,  but  O  I  pray 
Leave  me  my  loving  Falila! 


CONSISTENCY 

My  wife  defines  athletics 

"Brute  force  upon  parade," 
And  downs  their  staunchest  champions  with 

A  lingual  fusillade. 

She's  wrong,  but  quite  consistent, 

For,  loyal  to  her  views, 
She  even  shuns  the  study  when 

I'm  wrestling  with  my  muse. 

WHEN    STELLA    CAME 

(SONG) 

When  Stella  came  I  thought  my  heart    was   full  to   over 
flowing 
Of  Her,  but  little  more  than  child  herself,  who  gave  me 

Stella, 

But  Oh!  the  heart's  capacity  is  past  all  mortal  knowing, 
For  mine  holds  Stella  now  and,   in  the  old  place,  Stella's 
mother ! 

Refrain:      There's   always  a  place  for  one   more  in   the 

heart, 

The  store-house  of  love  is  as  wide  as  the  sea, 
And  all  it  demands  of  its  tenants  is  part 

Of  theirs  that  shall  always  in  readiness  be. 

And   though  my  heart  to-day  appears  to   be  a  well-filled 

dwelling, 

Whose  owner  looks  nor  right  nor  left  to  find  him  other 
tenants, 


It   has,    perhaps,  a  chamber  wide  and  ample — there's  no 

telling  !  — 

For    yet  another  stranger,  should  one  come,  if  like  my 
Stella. 

Refrain:      There's   always   a  place  for  one  more   in   the 

heart, 

The  store-house  of  love  is  as  wide  as  the  sea, 
And  all  it  demands  of  its  tenants  is  part 

Of  theirs  that  shall  always  in  readiness  be. 

WHAT  STELLA  SEES 

"Papa,  I  see  a  baby  in  your  eyes!" 

Though  all  day  long  the  sun  his  light 

Sheds  on  us  at  a  lavish  rate, 
The  noon  of  my  content's  at  night 

Just  when  the  short  hand's  nearing  eight. 
For  that's  the  hour  my  witch  of  four 

Claims  for  her  very,  very  own! 
The  paper  drops!  —  she's  at  the  door!  — 

Then  presto!  she  is  on  her  throne 
And  whispering  in  that  voice  so  dear, 

Aye  with  the  same  shy,  sweet  surprise, 
Her  tiny  mouth  close  to  my  ear: 

"/  see  a  baby  in  your  eyes!  " 

A  baby  in  my  eyes!     Ah!  yes, 

And  that  is  all  that  Stella  sees: 
She  vaguely  knows  when  they  caress, 

And  by  their  gloom  when  things  displease. 
But  naught  appears  upon  the  glass 

Which  mirrors  her  bright  face,  to  tell 
What  complex  feelings  crowd  each  pass 

Behind  its  smiling  sentinel. 


Anxiety  for  future  years, 

What's  that  to  Stella?      She  descries 
No  token  of  my  hopes  and  fears, 

But  just  "a  baby  in  my  eyes!  " 

However  kind,  Old  Time  at  last 

Will  dispossess  the  tenant  wee: 
Girl,  woman,  as  the  years  go  past 

Succeeding  to  the  tenancy. 
Love  light  in  other  eyes  will  shine 

And  glad  my  darling's  earthly  way, 
Please  Heaven,  when  in  sadder  mine 

The  shadows  of  my  dotage  play. 
But  not  till  they  forever  close, 

While  Death's  dark  angel  waits  apart, 
Or  chance  or  changes  shall  depose 

The  baby  reigning  in  my  heart! 

"I  DIDN'T  MEAN  TO" 
(SONG) 
I 

Someone  was  naughty  to-day, 

Disobeyed,  pouted  and  cried; 
Wanted  to  have  her  own  way 

Though  it  were  better  denied. 
But  when  time  come  for  "Good-night," 

"If  I  have  grieved  you,"  she  said, 
Hiding  her  eyes  from  the  light, 

Pulling  me  down  by  the  bed, — 

Refrain:      "I  didrf  t  mean  to,  honest  and  true! 

1  didn1 1  mean  to,  true  as  I  live!' ' 
What  could  I  say  to  her,  what  could  I  do? 

Nothing  but  hug  her,  kiss  and  forgive! 


II 

Someone's  mamma  pains  me,  too, 

Sometimes  when  things  don't  go  right, 
And  she  is  certain  to  sue, 

When  it  comes  time  for  "Good-night," 
For  my  forgiveness  and  say, 

Turning  her  wet  eyes  from  me, 
"If  I  have  hurt  you  to-day>J — 

Using  the  baby's  own  plea: 

Refrain:      "I  didn't  mean  to,  honest  and  true! 

I  didn't  mean  to,  true  as  I  live." 
What  can  I  say  to  her,  what  can  I  do? 

Nothing  but  hug  her,  kiss  and  forgive. 

A  SMALL  AND  EARLY 

On  Christmas  I  dined  at  an  hour 

Which  well  might  be  classed  as  unseemly, 
But  though  you  shut  me  in  a  tow'r 

I'll  still  say  I  liked  it  extremely. 
The  napery,  whilst  hardly  new, 

In  places  was  strikingly  snowy; 
The  china,  in  Delftest  of  blue, 

Attractive  without  being  showy. 
Indeed,  I  was  pleased  with  my  lot, 

And  though  she  said  "bestes'  "  and  "mostes*  ", 
And  "Isn't  I?  "  for  "Am  I  not  ?  " 

I  had  an  unparagoned  hostess. 

The  table,  it's  true,  was  quite  small — 

So  tiny,  in  fact,  that  I  fear  it 
Would  never  have  answered  at  all 

Had  I  not  jloored  myself  to  be  near  it. 
The  service  was  rather  unique, 

But  marked  by  dispatch  (if  not  neatness!) 


The  tea  was  transparent  and  weak, 

And  ev'ry  course  cloyed  with  its  sweetness. 

My  bones  and  my  back  ached  again, 
Yet,  as  I'm  a  penitent  sinner, 

I  truly  regretted  it,  when 

The  breakfast-bell  ended  our  dinner. 

I  sat  at  the  end  of  the  day 

Beside  a  board  rich  of  complexion; 
Its  master  a  man  who  can  play 

The  part  of  the  host  to  perfection: 
A  man  whom  I  envied  lang  syne 

His  wealth  and  his  high  social  standing, 
But,  somehow,  a  feeling  more  fine 

Than  envy  my  breast's  now  commanding. 
For  Heaven's  denied  him  one  gem 

That  I  proudly  wear  —  the  wee  daughter 
Who  dined  me  at  7  A.  M. 

On  the  dishes  St.  Nicholas  brought  her. 

THE  MEASURE  OF  STELLA'S  LOVE 

She  rendered  unto  him  all  day 

The  good  Saint's  due — praise,  gratitude, 
And  with  such  warmth  I'm  free  to  say 

It  put  me  in  a  jealous  mood. 
So  when  she  came  to  say  'Good-nigh? 

And  whispered  in  my  willing  ear, 
On  tip-toe  in  her  gown  of  white, 

Softly,  "/  love  you,  papa  dear!  " 
"You  love  me,  but  how  much?"  I  said, 

And  after  just  the  slightest  pause 
She  answered,  pulling  down  my  head: 

"/  love  you  more  than  Santy  C/aus.'" 


The  day  had  been  a  happy  one 

As  ev'ry  Christmas  ought  to  be; 
There  was  no  dearth  of  cheer  nor  fun 

And  ev'ry  bell  pealed  merrily. 
Those  near  and  dear  had  said  'Good- will' 

In  more  or  less  substantial  ways, 
And  nothing  in  the  guise  of  ill 

Had  called  for  pity  or  dispraise. 
But  Stella's  bed-time  hour  by  far 

The  happiest  was  to  me,  because 
'Twas  then  she  found,  my  own  bright  star! 

She  'loved  me  more  than  Santa  Claus!  ' 

A  TYPICAL  SUNDAY 

Another  Sunday's  over,  and  what  of  all  the  plans 

Through  the  long  week  since  Monday    for    its    obser 
vance  laid  ? 
(And  when  I  write  "observance"  I  ask  not  any  man's 

Belief  that  my  devotion  is  all  to  churchdom  paid!) 
To  read  and  write  a  little,  and  in  the  afternoon 

To  doze  a  time  serenely,  the  gyves  of  business  slipped, 
To  me  means  rest  the  sweetest.      The  hours  fly  oversoon, 

And  with  a  mellow    meerschaum  Care  shortly  is  out 
stripped. 
'Twas  in  this  lazy  fashion  I  planned  to  spend  to-day, 

But  I've  not  read  nor  written  nor  caught  the  shortest  nap, 
And    smoke?     Of  course    I  didn't!     How  could  I    do 
aught,  pray, 

With  Flora  at  her  music  and  Stella  in  my  lap? 

The  wife  laughed  bits  of  gossip  between  her  bass  hits  at 
A  florid  old  concerto, — some  alien  knave's,  in  short! 

The  daughter  plead  for  stories,  impressing  on  me  that 
They  must  be  of,  to  please  her,  a  Zenda  Jr.  sort. 


I  cultivated  patience  when  dinner,  so  to  speak, 

(For  some  good  Irish  reason)  flashed  in  the  pan  and  had 
To  be  begun  all  over — the  bouillon  then  was  weak, 

The  cutlets  very  stringy,  the  coffee  very  bad. 
Yet  here  at  ten  I  find  me  with  marvellous  content 

To  my  cheroot  confiding  that  I'm  a  lucky  chap, 
And  after  all  the  day  has  been  most  profitably  spent 

With  Flora  at  her  music  and  Stella  in  my  Jap. 

A  LENTEN  BALLAD 

(  With  apologies  to  Mr.  Dob  son. ) 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's 

Are  charitably  bent, 
And  practise  self-denial 

For  forty  days  in  Lent: 
But  Falila,  my  Falila! 

Who  has  no  creed,  I  fear, 
Nor  sitting  at  St.  James's, 

Is  kind  throughout  the  year. 

The  ladies  of  St  James's 

To  sewing-circles  go, 
And  pick  the  rector's  daughters 

To  pieces  as  they  sew : 
But  Falila,  my  Falila! 

Finds  more  important  cares — 
She  stays  at  home  to  set  a  patch 

And  mind  her  own  affairs. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's 

In  softly-cushioned  pews 
Devoutly  kneel  to  bless  them, 

Their  minds  on  gloves  and  shoes. 


26 


But  Falila,  my  Falila! 

Of  rites  who  little  knows, 
Forgets  herself  and  blesses  all, 

Nor  thinks  of  furbelows. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's 

Are  trained  of  throat  and  tongue, 
Yet  somehow  their  responses 

Are  very  badly  sung: 
But  Falila,  my  Falila ! 

In  notes  and  staves  untaught, 
Can  trill  the  quaintest  catches 

With  real  music  fraught. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's 

Deserve  your  stern  rebukes, 
They  sneer  at  every  stitch  on 

The  ladies  of  St.  Luke's: 
But  Falila,  my  Falila  ! 

As  a  true  woman  should, 
Looks  underneath  the  surface 

To  find  the  pure  and  good. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's, 

They  put  their  sackcloth  on 
For  each  brief  Lenten  Season, 

And  sin  again  anon. 
But  Falila,  my  Falila! 

Has  nothing  to  repent, 
She  makes  each  day  a  Shrovetide 

And  never  comes  to  Lent. 

My  Falila!      My  Falila! 

They  may  be  fair  efface, 
But  all  that  make  St.  James's 

Have  fallen  far  from  grace. 


27 


They  take  their  lip-devotion 
Where  all  the  world  may  see, 

But  Falila — my  Falila — 
Does  right  for  only  me! 


IN  DIVERS  MOODS 


CONSOLATION 

When  one  has  striven  year  on  year 
With  faithful  zeal  to  gain  a  goal, 
Devoting  heart  and  mind  and  soul 

To  its  attainment;  and  the  cheer 

Of  reaching  it  at  last  seems  near, 
Only  upon  succeeding  days 
To  have  it  fade  from  hopeful  gaze, 

Leaving  a  sense  of  failure  clear — 

What  can  be  consolation  here? 

This:    Consolation  mightiest  — 

1Jhe  knowledge  we  have  done  our  best! 

IMPRESSIONS 

En  Ville 

Who  has  been  born  and  bred  in  some  old  town, 
Where  patriarchal  elms  or  willows  meet 
In  leafy  arches  over  lane  and  street, 

Bestowing  shadow  rugs  of  tender  brown 

Upon  the  road  beneath,  once  he  has  pressed 
The  choking  dust  of  a  metropolis, 
Will  aye  recall  the  day  as  spent  amiss, 

A  time  of  scorching  fever  and  unrest. 

A  la  Campagne 

Who  has  been  fostered  in  a  city's  glare, 

And  trodden  all  his  youth  its  blist'ring  ways 
That  know  no  shade  save  that  the  midnight  lays- 
Let  him  no  more  than  from  his  railway-chair 
Catch  one  short  glimpse  of  Nature's  lavishment 
Upon  a  favored  vale  of  groves  and  green, 
And  he  forever  will  unite  the  scene 
With  thoughts  of  perfect  peace  and  sweet  content. 


HEART  OF  THE  WOODS 

Heart  of  the  woods,  throbbing  so  tristfully, 
Whether  embraced  of  the  amorous  noon, 
Or  the  clear  gaze  of  the  passionless  moon 

Searches  your  depths,  whitely  and  wistfully: 

Whether  the  May  trills  to  you  cheerfully 
Madrigal  measures  of  blossoms  and  wings; 
Or  a  chill,  airy-limbed  autumn  night  brings 

Voices  to  chant,  dolefully,  tearfully, — 

Wherefore  your  grief  ?  Sobs  for  the  olden  time 
Ere  ruthless  man  profaned  your  sweet  shade; 
When  the  stag  came  to  your  innermost  glade; 

This  is  your  grief:  Grief  for  that  golden  time. 

Heart  of  the  woods,  then  mine  is  kin  to  you; 
That  e'er  is  turning  to  days  that  are  fled: 
Turning  to  loves  that  are  tombed  with  the  dead. 

Heart  of  the  woods,  let  me  come  in  to  you. 

WHEN  MIDDLE-AGE  HAS  OLDER  GROWN 

That  hoyden,  Youth,  flings  wide  the  door 
And  wantonly  the  garden's  store 
Quick  he  despoils,  and  leaves  to  die, 
His  brief  desires  that  satisfy, 
Scarce  redder  than  his  cheeks,  his  lips, 
The  roses  that  he  ruthless  clips. 

Staid  Middle-Age  in  high-backed  chair, 
Ensconced  in  the  low  window  there, 
Descries  this  sack  of  summer's  gifts, 
And  eyes,  voice,  finger,  he  uplifts 
In  stern  reproof  of  Youth's  mad  way 
That  darkens  all  his  little  day. 


When  Middle-Age  has  older  grown 
Not  only  will  he  then  condone 
Your  maddest  pranks,  and  fondly  be 
The  very  soul  of  lenity; 
But,  harking  back  long  years,  you  elf, 
Will  join  you  in  them  all,  himself. 

LE  CALME 

I. 

After  long  time  of  dread  shrieking  of  winds  and  of  merci 
less  tempest, 
When  the  sea  thunders  its  blackness  up,  up,    till  a  sullen 

cloud  plunges 
Bright,  quiv'ring    shafts    in    its    bosom — then,    after    the 

night  has  gone  over, 
Comes  sweet-mouthed  morn,  gentle-miencd,   all  roseate, 

dreamy  and  peaceful; 
Spotless  of  sky,  save  a  lark's  silhouette   that  to  sunward  is 

winging; 
Silent  of  voice,  save  the  song  of  the  lark  in  faint  snatches, 

and  murmur, 
Musical  murmur  of  ripples  that  hasten  them  shoreward  in 

gladness; 
How  near  is  God  when  the  storm's  rage  is  spent  and  the 

sea  has  grown  tranquil ! 


33 


II. 

How  like  is  life  to  the  tempest,  how  like  to  the  blind, 
blighting  tempest, 

While  its  young  barque  tosses  over  the  black  sea  of  treach 
erous  passion, 

Seaming  the  innocent  face  with  the  horrible  scars  of  in 
dulgence, 

Dulling  the  eye,  the  mouth's  kindliest  lines  turning  cyni 
cal,  bitter. 

How  we  chafe,  serfs  of  unrest,  'neath  the  galsome  strong 
fetters  that  bind  us, 

Till  through  the  clouds  shines  the  light  of  bright  eyes  that 
entreat  and  encourage. 

Ah !  the  dear  feeling  of  peace,  with  the  old  paths  forever 
forsaken, 

Follows  bestowal  of  God's  choicest  blessing  —  a  pure  love 
requited. 

AT  THE  END 

We  were  of  those  misled,  who  love  too  well; 

Who  wreck  Youth's  shallop  in  the  brine  of  tears, 
And    for  a  day's  delicious  briefness  sell 

The  uniform  content  of  many  years. 
But  though  we  erred  together,  equally, 

The  unappealable  ukase  of  men 
That  set  the  scarlet  brand  of  sin  on  me 

Left  him  unscathed,  life  to  begin  again. 
Despair  had  maddened  him,  and  anguish  torn, 
If  he  had  borne  the  blame  that  I  have  borne. 

From  room  to  room  the  shade  of  Hester's  Pearl 

Through  those  last  months  walked  with  me,  old  and 

wise; 
The  signet  of  my  shame,  too,  was  a  girl 


34 


Who  looked  reproaches  with  her  father's  eyes 
A  bitter  twelvemonth  and  unchristened  died. 

I  laughed  once  more — the  first  time  after — then, 
The  precious  boon  of  weeping  me  denied, 

While  in  black  scorn  their  fingers  raised  again. 
Ah!  what  a  trifling  thing  had  been  earth's  scorn 
If  he  had  shared  the  blame  that  I  have  borne. 

His  lawful  wife  is  fair  as  I  am  swart; 

Her  hair  is  sunny  and  her  eyes  are  blue; 
And  they  are  happy,  if  the  world's  report 

That  reaches  my  asylum  walls  is  true. 
Pure  soul,  if  she  has  taught  him  to  forget 

The  sad  imprudence  that  has  been  my  ban, 
To  her  I  owe  of  gratitude  a  debt, 

For  Oh!  I  love  him  as  she  never  can. 
If  for  a  minute's  space  Peace  he  has  known, 
'Tis  best  that  I  have  borne  the  blame  alone. 

TO  A  LITTLE  APOSTATE:  ^TAT  SEVEN 

Less  than  two  months  ago,  one  Nicholas 

Your  patron  saint  was,  and  no  pow'r  could  dim 
The  faith  impregnable  you  placed  in  him, 

Nor  banter  its  undoing  bring  to  pass. 

And  now,  you  renegade,  'tis  Valentine 

To  whom  you  pay  your  worshipment  devout, 
And  lie  awake  o'  nights  to  point  me  out 

As  one  deserving  of  a  costly  shrine. 

But  why  should  I  complain,  all  said  and  done, 

Against  your  innocent  apostasy? 

What  is  your  little  fickleness  to  me 
Since  I'm  Sts.  Nick  and  Valentine  in  one  ? 


35 


THE  NEW  CIRCE 

No  islet-kingdom  has  this  fair-haired  one, 

Of  drugs  no  knowledge,  philtres  brews  not  she, 

Yet  many  self-sure  men  has  she  undone 

By  her  own  ways  of  pleasant  sorcery. 

She  whirls  in  no  mad  dances  dervishly, 

Nor  with  incantatory  crooning  charms 

Her  hapless  slaves,  who  yet  would  not  be  free 

While  with  a  conq'ring  smile  she  soothes,  disarms, 

Born  of  some  slight  neglect,  their  fears,  doubts  and  alarms. 

She  has  no  wand  nor  needs  one.      Her  demesne 

Is  ev'ry  drawing  room.      A  slender  chair 

Becarved  and  gilt,  her  throne  that    any  queen 

Might  wish  to  sit  upon.      About  her  there 

They  crowd,  the  subjects  of  this  guileless  fair, 

Fain  for  the  services  she  may  commend; 

Content  forever  the  sweet  bonds  to  wear  — 

That  even  Egypt's  moly  cannot  rend  — 

If  she,    though   loving   not,  to   love   them    will  pretend. 

BITTER  MEMORIES 

The  reminiscent  rhymester  sings 

Full  oft  of  childhood  days, 
Which  ever  flit  on  brilliant  wings 

By  most  nectarious  ways. 
Sweets  pur  et  simple  fill  his  rhyme, 

No  bitter  may  steal  in, 
And  it  is  very  clear  that  I'm 

Not  of  the  singer's  kin. 
For  when  I  go  down  Memory's  street 

At  every  turn  I  see 
Quinine — that  must  be  taken  'neat'  — 
And  boneset  tea. 


And,  though  it  sounds  a  paradox, 

More  bitter  things  than  these 
I  find  in  the  Pandoran  box 

Of  childhood  memories. 
Not  aloes — which  I  learned  to  like 

What  time  T  bit  my  nails, 
Nor  rhubarb — I  was  such  a  tike 

For  mixing  of  my  ails! 
But  these,  these  are  the  bitterest — 

Molasses  thick  and  black 
With  sulphur  subtly  coalesced, 
And  ipecac! 

BETTY  TO   HERSELF 

(  On  Christmas  Morning} 

How  kind  they  have  been  to  their  Betty  ! 

What  girl  is  so  favored  as  I  ? 
The  sum  of  my  virtues  is  petty, 

But  love  sees  the  figures  mile-high. 
The  pleasing  array's  almost  endless, 

They've  humored  my  every  whim, 
Yet  I  feel  quite  forsaken  and  friendless — 
There's  nothing  from  him  ! 

His  income  I  know  is  a  small  one 

With  which  a  great  deal  must  be  done  : 

Forsooth,  it's  enough  to  appal  one, 
His  burden  from  sun  unto  sun. 

But  surely  I've  kept  within  reason 
Expecting,  by  good-will  inspired, 

A  greeting  becoming  the  season — - 
It's  all  I  desired! 


37 


These  verses  I  longed  for  so  deeply 

Are  puerile  things  after  all; 
And  none  must  discover  how  cheaply 

The  strains  of  this  rhapsody  brawl ! — 
But  whose  card  is  this  with  the  roses  ? 

It's  his  !  —  and  the  line  that  I  read 
Such  a  beautiful  secret  discloses 

My  cup's  full,  indeed  ! 

ON  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 

(  A  Reverie} 
There  sinks  the  last  December  sun, 

(The  prospect  from  this  window's  cheerful!) 
And  new  days  come,  rose-hued  or  dun, 

As  fate  ordains,  another  y earful. 
Who'd  spare  the  old  year's  hoary  locks? 

Not  Davy,  by  his  namesake's  lockers! 
Tomorrow  he  steps  out  of  frocks 

And  into  knickerbockers. 

And  now  the  moon  above  us  fares: 

(The  prospect  from  this  window's  charming!) 
Old  moon,  old  year!      My  own  grey  hairs 

Are  coming  at  a  rate  alarming. 
But  who  would  have  the  minutes  stay? 

Not  I!      I  like  the  present  phasis! 
To-morrow  puts  my  starveling  pay 

Upon  a  higher  basis. 

Eleven  strikes!      I'm  half  asleep! 

(My  stars,  this  window-seat  is  chilly!) 


38 


The  vigil  I  set  out  to  keep 

Seems  after  all  a  trifle  silly. 
Who  bids  Time  "  Halt!  "  ?  It's  Imogene's 

Sad  voice  that  mourns  the  far  niente 
Of  fleeting,  tranquil,  care-free  teens — 

Tomorrow  she'll  be  twenty! 

OLD  VALENTINES 

To-day  with  a  yearning  for  long  ago  days 

And  all  the  bright  things  that  were  one  with  my  youth, 
I  threaded  the  lumber-room's  dustiest  maze 

And  sung  as  I  searched  of  life's  raptures  and  ruth. 
I  brought  out  old  books  and  turned  many  a  leaf 

Which  still  has  the  power  my  interest  to  win, 
And  presently  came  on  a  yellowy  sheaf 

Of  valentines  hid  since  the  sixties  were  in. 

The  red  rose  is  white  and  the  violet  blue 

Is  faded  and  pale  as  a  flower  of  snow; 
Forget-me-nots  reft  of  their  delicate  hue 

Have  ceased  for  true  lovers  and  happy  to  blow. 
The  once  dainty  lace  shows  the  ravage  of  Time, 

The  tinsel  is  tarnished  and  glistens  no  more, 
But  clear  as  a  bird's  is  the  lilt  of  the  rhyme 

And  tender  and  sweet  as  I  found  it  of  yore. 

With  reverent  fingers  I  lifted  each  one, 

Recalling  the  sender  while  quiet  tears  fell; 
I  said  o'er  the  verses  by  heart,  missing  none, 

And  marvelled  that  mem'ry  should  serve  me  so  well. 
The  years  have  set  some  things  most  sadly  awry ! 

This  dumpy  gilt  Cupid  and  scintillant  dove 
Are  not  more  old-fashioned  and  graceless  than  I, 

And  all  things  are  changed  but  the  language  of  love. 


39 


A  WINTER  SONG 

A  full  moon  and  a  silver  floor 

Swept  by  a  bracing  gale 
Await  us  out-of-doors,  my  dear, 

So  leave  your  paltry  tale. 
So  leave  your  love-sick  tale,  my  dear, 

With  all  its  base  intrigue 
And  come  where,  gaged  by  Joy,  each  rod's 

A  mile,  each  mile  a  league! 

The  turn-pike  leading  riverward 

Sings  with  the  crunch  of  snow ! 
There's  new  life  in  the  crispy  air! 

Come!      Get  your  skates  and  go. 
Your  sharpest  and  most  bright,  my  dear, 

And  be  prepared  to  pay 
A  small  toll  at  the  crumbling  gate 

Upon  our  pleasant  way. 

We'll  seek  the  willows  that  dipped  in 

Our  skiff  on  August  nights, 
And  mark  how  hazily  the  skies 

Reflect  the  city's  lights. 
Reflect!      The  city's  lights,  my  dear, 

Have  lost  their  chiefest  beam 
When  you,  in  brisk  or  balmy  hours, 

Are  with  me  on  the  stream. 

Your  eyes  will  dance  at  one  mile-stone, 

At  two  your  cheeks  will  glow; 
At  three  I'll  say  it's  best  to  turn, 

And  yet  you  will  not !      No! 
And  yet  you  will  not  know,  my  dear, 

The  meaning  of  fatigue, 
For  love  and  sweet  companionship 

Make  inches  of  a  league! 


A  BALLAD  OF  OLD  SKATES 

I  see  a  host  of  little  men 

Troop  by  from  school  at  half-past  three, 
And  presently  troop  back  again, 

Skates  on  their  arms,  in  highest  glee. 
The  gleaming  blades  throw  back  to  me 

A  shaft  of  sunlight  and  are  gone, 
And  then,  as  in  a  dream,  I  see 

The  old-time  skates  that  buckled  on  ! 

They  all  come  back — -the  good  old  ways ! — 

The  legend  that  to  boy  and  man 
The  cars  showed  on  propitious  days — 

"Good  skating  on  Branch  Brook"  it  ran. 
From  that  hour  Boreas  began 

His  reign,  till  disenthroned anon, 
There  were  no  dearer  treasures  than 

The  old-time  skates  that  buckled  on  ! 

Good  skating?    Well!    Four  months  of  it ! 

(The  winter  months  then  get  their  dues !) 
And  manv  a  night  saw  bon-fires  lit 

Upon  the  ice — and  barbecues! 
At  six,  with  heel-plates  in  my  shoes, 

My  best  boast  was  that  I  could  don, 
With  all  their  clumsy  straps  and  screws, 

The  old-time  skates  that  buckled  on  ! 

Young  man,  the  modern  skate's  a  'champ' 
And  'just  perfection',  you  declare; 

But  I'll  be  bound  the  clever  clamp 
Does  not  increase  the  sport  a  hair. 

I'm  in  the  forties  now,  my  share 
Embonpoint ;  but  by  Helicon  ! 

II  I  could  skate  I  still  would  wear 

The  old-time  skates  that  buckled  on  ! 


FOR  THE  EYE  OF  HORTENSE 

When  I  was  still  in  velveteen, 

Love's  meaning  all  unknown  to  me, 
A  lady  on  a  lacquered  screen 

Smiled  from  her  bow'r  seductively. 
And  underneath  the  study  lamp 

A  wee  bronze  siren  slyly  made 
{A  vivandiere  from  Cupid's  camp) 

To  win  me  with  a  serenade. 
But  gazing  from  my  hassock  low 

I  craved,  far  out  of  reach  and  risk, 
And  tricked  to  thrill  Monsieur  Watteau, 

A  dainty  shepherdess  in  bisque. 

The  Oriental's  outspread  fan 

And  bright  kimono,  cherry -hued, 
Changed  to  a  garden  of  Japan 

The  parlor's  stuffy  solitude. 
And  many  an  hour's  distress  allayed 

The  cithern  of  that  brazen  minx, 
(According  to  my  mood  she  played 

The  Maiden*  s  Prayer  or    Captain   Jinks!') 
But  of  my  glance  oblivious  quite, 

Unbending  as  an  obelisk, 
Stood  far  above  me  chill  and  white 

The  tender  shepherdess  in  bisque. 


The  people  of  my  nursery  days 

Have  come  again  in  later  years: 
One  lights  with  smiles  uncheery  ways, 

One  still  with  lightsome  music  cheers. 
And  she  to  whom  my  heart  goes  out 

With  all  the  fire  of  twenty-two 
Is  far  above  me,  ill  with  doubt, 

Like  that  cold  Phebe  I  once  knew. 
Indeed,  for  all  that  falls  to  me 

Of  favors  from  this  maiden  brisk, 
She  might  as  well,  I  vow  it,  be 

The  soulless  shepherdess  in  bisque. 

OF   GRETCHEN,    WHO    COMES 
WITH    THE    ALE 

When  quip  and  jest  no  blithe  response 

Wake  in  the  hypped  heart, 
And  in  life's  arbor  for  the  nonce 

No  grapes  are  else  than  tart, 
I  summon  for  my  better  state 

A  sylph  in  wooden   shoes, 
Before  whose  smile  fly  swift  and  straight 

Most  mazarine  of  blues! 
A  gay  good  genius  from  the  Rhine, 
My  Lady  of  the  cheerful  stein. 

The  nectar  on  Olympus  quaffed 
Would  not,  (I'm  giving  odds!) 

Once  o'er  'old  musty'  they  had  laughed, 
Have  satisfied  the  gods. 

And  none  who  in  our  days  his   whet 
Takes  from  a  crystal  brim 


43 


Brought  by  a  much-befrilled  grisette 

Knows  what  joy's  lost  to  him. 
She  comes  with  better  drink  than  wine, 
My  Lady  of  the  cheerful  stein. 

Like  lovely  Aphrodite,  sprung 

From  Neptune's  bitter  spume, 
Fair  Gretchen  stands  froth-crowned,  a  young, 

Bright  goddess  dooming  gloom. 
But  underneath  her  simpler  zone 

No  guile  plans  escapades, 
The  pride  of  conquest  quite  unknown 

Beneath  her  flaxen  braids. 
She  boasts  more  charms  than  Proserpine, 
My  Lady  of  the  cheerful  stein. 

And  if  in  lonesome  hours  to  me 

When  nights  are  cold  and  long, 
To  wish  she  were  an  entity 

The  stimulus  is  strong, 
I  just  reflect:      Had  she  a  heart 

My  measure  might  be  woe! 
The  creature  of  a  potter's  art 

If  she  remains,  I'll  know 
She  really  is  mine,  all  mine — 
My  Lady  of  the  cheerful  stein. 


LITTLE  FLINGS  AT  LITTLE 
FOLLIES 


HIS  WATERLOO. 

Man  is  heir  to  divers  trials, 
Tribulations  and  denials 
Of  the  things  which  most  devoutly 
He  desires.      But  still  he  stoutly 
Bears  up  under  disappointment, 
Finding  efficacious  ointment 
In  sweet  Hope,  that  ne'er  forsakes  him, 
For  his  wounds.      Yet  one  thing  takes  him 
With  despairing.      He  resigns  his 
Claim  to  meekness  and  consigns  his 
Shoestring  to  Dan  Pluto's  lakes, 
When  it  breaks! 

THE  DEDUCTION  OF  A  MISOGYNIST 

I  swear  by  Master  Lempriere, 

So  grieve  the  more  that  he  insists, 

With  much  misled  mythologists, 
The  Sphinx  was  partly  woman.      Share 
This  view  who  will,  /  must  conclude 

It's  a  mistaken  one,  since  she 

(I  grant  the  feminalityj 
Belies  it  by  the  course  pursued. 
To  make  and  keep  a  secret  so 

Till  it  was  guessed — guessed,  if  you  please  — 

To  hold  her  tongue  for  centuries 
And  be  part  woman  still  ?      O  no ! 

WHERE  CULTURE    FAILED 

After  years  of  application, 

With  a  master's  touch  acquired, 
She  resumed  her  humble  station, 

Music-mad,  Ambition-fired. 


47 


Something  simple,  she  reflected, 

Would  most  tickle  her  relations; 
Consequently  she  selected 

When  they  came  to  hear  her  play 
"Home  Sweet  Home" — with  variations. 
Ere  its  last  run  died  away 

Spake  her  father,  coaxing-slow: 
"That  is  fine,  we  will  allow,  dear, 
And  well-done,  we're  sure,  but  now,  dear, 

Play  us  something  that  we  know." 

HAIRLESS  AND  HEIRLESS 

Upon  his  head  were  fifty  years  : 

(And  little  else.)      To  twenty 
The  maid  might  own.      He  had  no  fears, 

Of  earth's  goods  having  plenty, 
That  she  would  answer  aught  but  "Yes  " 

When  he  his  mind  had  spoken. 
He  hesitated,  ne'ertheless, 

To  speak!      The  silence  broken 
At  last,  he  made  a  lengthy  plea 

Unlike  the  "old,  old  story," 
Which  seemed  for  all  the  world  to  be 

A  sort  of  inventory. 
Her  answer:      "Hope  I  cannot  give, 

'Tis  vain  the  matter  mincing, 
You  are,  sir,  like  your  narrative, 

Both  bald  and  unconvincing!" 

A  MISCONSTRUCTION 

"Does  your  wife  put  thyme  in  dressing?" 

Queried  Marjoram  of  Sage. 
"Well,  she  does,  you're  safe  in  guessing, 

From  an  hour  to  an  age ! 


48 


Last  night,  sir,  while  she  was  making 

Ready  for  a  little  call 
I  caught  forty  winks,  and,  waking, 

Read  the  paper,  ads  and  all. 
Wrote  a  letter  —  two  —  and  then  I 
Took  a  turn  at  smoking.      When  I 

Rolled  the  seventh  cigarette 

She  was  far  from  reaching  yet 
The  first  stage  of  "prepossessing" — 
Does  my  wife  put  time  in  dressing!" 

IF  JOHN  ALDEN  CAME  TO  NEW  ENGLAND 

If  by  some  strange  dispensation    John  Alden  should  visit 

New  England 
He  would,   no  doubt,   mark  with  wide-eyed  amazement 

the  magical  changes 
Wrought  by  the  Arts  and  the  Sciences  since  the  old  days 

of  the  forest  ! 
But  what  would  dumbfound  him  more  than  the  'phone 

and  the  spark-spitting  trolley 
Is  that  nine-tenths  of  her  people    can   trace  their  direct 

descent  from  him. 
Granting  their  claims  are  well-founded  'twould  seem,  with 

a  start  of  some  ages, 
Abraham's  seed  is  not  in  it  for  numbers  with  Alden' s,  by 

legions  ! 

ASSERTION  AND  PROOF 

If  you  discredit  this,  that  wives  are  sold 

In  our  enlightened  land  and  years  of  grace 
As  evilly  as  in  the  days  of  old, 

And  at  a  quicker  than  their  pagan  pace, 
Come  call  on  me  some  day  when  mine  is  out 

And,  proving  such  iniquity  prevails, 
I'll  show  you  spread  my  little  house  about 

The  Dead  Sea  fruit  of  countless  "special  sales!" 

49 


AN  AWAKENING 

When  Bernice  was  learning  to  skate  I  decided 
Her  slenderness  gave  no  idea  of  her  weight, 

For  all  the  enjoyment  was  hers,  undivided, 
When  Bernice  was  learning  to  skate. 

But  now,  when  at  midnight  she  roars  like  a  furnace, 
I  pause  on  each  lap  of  my  journey  to  state, 

Her  daughter  weighs  fully  a  stone  more  than  Bernice 
When  Bernice  was  learning  to  skate. 

THREE  OLD  BIRDS 

Beaming  with  foster-motherhood 

She  asked  (still  fiercely  ruminant) 

The  hall-rooms  latest  occupant; 
"And  do  you  find  the  turkey  good?" 

At  first  he  seemed  to  have  no  tongue, 

But  presently  he  gravely  eyed 

His  vis-a-vis  and  thus  replied: 
"Madame,  they  say  the  good  die  young!" 

THERE'S  A  TIME  FOR  EVERYTHING 

On  most  occasions  you  might  take 

Estelle  for  "Silence"  fled  her  frame  : 
When  with  sweet,  tight-closed  lips  she  sits 

You're  sure  to  cry  her  sisters  shame 
For  their  distracting  badinage; 

And  when  she  smiles,  their  repartee 
And  wordy  wit  fall  flat  enough 

Beside  her  quiet  brilliancy. 


5° 


Her  taciturnity  destroys 

The  flavor  of  that  ancient  jest 
That  Woman  talks  most  all  the  time, 

And  never  gives  her  tongue  a  rest. 
But  there  is  an  occasion  when 

On  chattering  she  will  insist 
Fast  as  the  jay  proverbial, 

And  that's  when  she  is  playing  whist. 

A  FATHER  SPEAKS 

I've  read  somewhere  that  when  the  patch  was  worn 

A  grace  it  lent  the  wearer 
Which  made  the  plainest  faces  less  forlorn 

And  fair  ones  fairer. 
The  verses  that  I  cite  go  on  to  state, 

Lamenting  that  it  is  so, 
This  aid  to  beauty  that  could  animate 

A  woman's  phiz  so, 
Is  now  irrevocably  out  of  date. 

I  wish  to  set  the  rhymer  right,  for  though 
I  may  lack  much  of  his  accomplishment, 

I've  four  boys  under  ten  and  chance  to  know 
That  patches  still  obtain  to  some  extent. 

A  VERIFICATION 

A  long,  long  time  I  paid 

My  honest  addresses 
A  someday-monied  maid, 

And  naught  but  caresses 
Told  her  how  my  heart  laid. 
And  why?      I  was  afraid 

She'd  yes  me  no  yes-es! 


And  when  I  spoke  at  last, 

Still  doubting  and  fearful, 
Though  no  sweet  word  she  passed, 

But  blushed  and  grew  tearful; 
Her  heart  was  won,  I  knew, 
Her  heart,  and  dollars,  too, 
Which  proved  to  some  extent 

Two  adages  olden — 
That  "Silence  gives  consent" 

And  "Silence  is  golden." 

TWO  ON  THE   CAMEL 
I 

I've  studied  the  tale 

Of  the  straw  and  the  camel, 

That  picturesque  mammal, 

And  this  I've  concluded  : 

We've  all  been  deluded, 
The  straw  that  undid  him  was  surely  a  bale. 

II 

But  still  I'm  immersed 
In  doubt,  as  at  first, 
Concerning  the  fate 

Of  Croesus  &  Co. 
When  through  Heaven's  gate 

They  venture  to  go. 

This,  though,  I  do  know 
There's  nothing  to  trammel 

The  average  rich  man  to-day, 

If  he,  by  some  chance,  should  essay 
The  feat  that's  assigned  to  the  camel. 


THE  OMNIPRESENT  PESSIMIST 

As  I  came  saunt'ring  home  this  afternoon 

A  sense  of  utter  joy  awoke  in  me, 

And  with  the  singer  sang  I,  "  Verily 
These  are  rare  days  that  wait  on  roseate  June." 

The  sky  was  almost  cloudless,  and  the  bay 

A  sheet  of  silver,  while  a  trillion  wells 

Of  sound  and  scent  wrought  their  enchanting  spells, 
Meseemed  to  make  this  the  most  perfect  day. 

But  at  the  crossing  of  two  dusty  ways 

One,  travel-stained,  my  castle  of  Content 
O'erset,  my  mind's  calm  sea  turned  turbulent, 

With  the  assurance  "he'd  seen  better  days!" 

THE  FIRST  CLOUDS 

In  the  Drawing  Room — one  week  after  marriage. 

"Please  don't  smoke  here,  my  own, 

You'll  ruin  drapery  and  curtain, 
And,  what's  more  serious, 

You'll  undermine  your  health,  I'm  certain!" 

In  the  Library — a  fortnight  after  marriage. 

"You  shouldn't  smoke  here,  Fred, 
Unless  you  want  to  split  my  head!" 

In  the  Kitchen — a  month  after  marriage. 

"You  can't  smoke  here!" 

******* 

So  I've  sworn  off:      O  no! 

Go  to  the  Club:      I'll  maybe  later. 
Just  now  down  cellar,  I 

Smoke  with  the  furnace,  like  a  crater. 


53 


ON  CIRCUMSTANTIAL  EVIDENCE 

My !      What  a  plight  the  child  is  in ! 

It  means  an  instant  tubbing, 
(Where  can  the  little  scamp  have  been?) 

With  some,  perforce,  ungentle  rubbing. 

A  half-hour  since  I  set  him  down 

With  ev'ry  stitch  on  snowy, 
And  boots  that  not  a  beau's  in  town 

Could  quite  outshine,  however  showy. 

Be  sure  he's  gone  upon  the  road 

And  fallen  in  a  puddle 
In  spite  of  our  don1  /-go-there  code — 

How  else  explain  this  precious  muddle? 

Mud  head  to  foot,  on  neither  shoe 

The  slightest  trace  of  blacking; 
Curls  gone  and  hat  on  wrong  side  to, 

Its  strings, — one  torn,  one  wholly  lacking. 


Shi     Nurse,  bethink  yourself  a  bit 
And  don't  make  such  a  pother: 

The  boy  has  only,  as  is  fit, 

Been  out  a-walking  with  his  father. 

CERAMIC  MELANCHOLY 

How  blue  they  are !      What  is  amiss  ? 

Their  lot  seems  not  a  bad  one! 
Why  do  they  stand  so  long  like  this 
And  look,  united  in  a  kiss, 

As  if  they'd  never  had  one  ? 


54 


The  present  indications  are 

That  naught  can  come  between  them. 
Her  pater  might —  a  family  jar 
Suits  him! — but  though  he  isn't  far 

I'm  sure  he  hasn't  seen  them! 

Why  are  they  blue?      Has  some  small  mind 

Their  manners  been  attacking  ? 
Though  hard  of  feature  and  inclined 
To  stiffish  limbs,  a  certain  kind 

Of  polish  they're  not  lacking. 

No,  ears  for  critics  they  have  not, 

And  clever  must  the  shrew  be 
Who  wins  with  railing  half  a  jot 
Their  eyes  from  the  accustomed  spot. 

Then  why  should  they  so  blue  be? 

Friend,  your  conclusion  has  its  flaws, 
There's  nothing  much  the  matter. 
Our  loving  twain  are  blue  because 
They're  fixtures  without  rest  or  pause 
Upon  an  old  Delft  platter. 

THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  ATHENIAN 

When  young  Priscilla  drove  her  cows 

From  Temple  Place  to  Copley  Square, 
Or  listened  to  a  lover's  vows 

On  Beacon  Street,  just  as  and  where 

Her  fair  descendants  do,  a  spare 
And  simple  gown  by  her  own  fingers  made 

She  wore,  nor  other  gowns  she  had, 
B  ut  yet  their  portraits  vest  her  in  brocade, 
Put  patches  on  her  cheek  to  add 

Another  charm,  and  powder  in  her  hair. 


55 


We  pardon  them  their  small  deceits, 

Reflecting  that  some  future  race 
Of  wider  minds  and  wider  streets 

May  please  upon  its  wall  to  place 

Prisciila's  real  self,  and  trace 
With  pride  its  sure  ascent  from  lowly  things, 

Ignoring  mushroom  growths  between. 
But  meanwhile  erudite  Minerva  clings 
To  bookishness  and  glasses  green, 

And  judges  old-time  worth  by  pictured  grace. 

THE  CLOTHING  OF  CUPID 

We  looked  at  pictures,  Stella  on  my  knee, 
Our  favorite  diversion,  you  must  know: 

The  book,  a  mythologic  ABC 

Of  dead  divinities,  both  high  and  low. 

And  under  V  we  presently  espied 

The  Queen  of  Love  with  Cupid  at  her  side. 

In  flowing  Grecian  robes  was  she  arrayed, 
He,  plump  and  pink  and  quite  au  nature/ : 

I  made  to  turn  the  leaf —  my  hand  was  stayed 
And  then  I  knew  I  had  a  tale  to  tell. 

"Who  is  that  lady,  papa?"  asked  my  Joy; 

Said  I:  "It's  Venus  and  her  little  bov." 


She  conned  the  picture  long  and  earnestly  — 
The  rose-lipped  god,  the  goddess,  each  in  turn 

Then  looking  up  beseechingly  at  me, 

She  said,  with  all  a  mother's  deep  concern, 

While  two  bright  tears  came  trickling  down  her  nose 

"Why  doesn't  Venus  buy  her  baby  clothes?" 

Quoth  I,  to  comfort  her:    "The  picture's  old 
To-day  young  Cupid  goes  in  splendid  garb, 

A  wallet  filled  to  overflow  with  gold 

His  surest,  nay,  his  only  certain  barb!" 

****** 

And  gentle  reader,  it  is  yours  to  sav 

If  I  told  not  some  whit  of  truth  that  day. 

FEBRUARY  WEATHER 

A  foretaste  of  the  by-and-by 

Smiles  in  the  genial  sun, 
And  in  the  azure  of  the  sky 

Italia  is  outdone. 
The  morning's  charms  of  gleam  and  glint 

A  trillion  is  their  sum, 
And  on  the  fields  the  diamonds  hint 

Of  emeralds  to  come. 
To  Beth  the  air's  like  wine 

That  needs  no  label  lent  it  — 
She  has  a  -valentine 

doesrf  '  t  know  who  sent  it  ! 


And  now,  behold  !  the  light  of  spring 
And  balm  of  spring  is  flown! 

The  skies  are  dark  and  lowering 
As  are  Siberia's  own! 

The  snow  that  just  entranced  the  eye 
Again  lies  like  a  pall, 


57 


And  even  by  a  grate  piled  high 

Beth  closer  draws  her  shawl. 
In  all  things  here  below 

Her  interest's  grown  atomic — 
She' s  opened  it,  and  O 

Her  valentine''  s  a  comic  ! 

IN  THE  AGE  OF  FANCY  BOSOMS 

What  made  the  man  conspicuous 

I,  somehow,  couldn't  tell  : 
His  coat  was  in  the  best  of  taste 

And  fit  exceeding  well  ; 
His  trousers — light,  but  not  too  light  — 

Were  of  a  modest  check, 
And  not  an  ultra  stitch  was  in 

The  collar  on  his  neck. 

Th'  extraordinary  something  I 

Sought  vainly  in  his  hat, 
For  neither  shape  nor  trimming  gave 

Me  aught  to  cavil  at. 
His  shoes,  I  found,  were  seemly  for 

A  self-respecting  man — 
Not  bottle-green  nor  ox-blood  red, 

But  just  a  decent  tan. 

His  tie  of  golf  effects,  so-called, 

Was  innocent  ;  and  why  ! 
The  jewelry  in  sight  you  could, 

I  vow,  put  in  your  eye. 
In  fine  I  stewed  and  studied  till 

I  felt  defeated  quite, 
When  suddealy  I  noticed  that 

The  shirt  he  wore  was  white  \ 


A  TALE  OF  THREE  CITIES 
1894 

Priscilla  of  these  fin  de  siecle  days, 

Who  from  old  Pilgrim  stock  boasts  her  descent, 
Reads  Emerson  and  Browning,  and  essays 

A  tilt  with  any  sage  at  argument; 

Goes  to  the  Symphonies,  plays  whist  in  Lent  — 
Yet  in  one  way  she  patterns  her  grandames, 

For  when  a  bit  of  gossip  you  bestow, 
With  all  her  Ssmic  knowledge,  she  exclaims: 
"I  want  to  know !" 

Who  has  come  down  upon  Manhattan-isle 

Through  a  long  line  of  tradesfolk  Vans,  to-day 
She  perches  high  upon  the  social  stile, 

And  plumes  herself  on  being  distingue, 

And  on  her  etiquette;  but  if  you  say 
A  thing  is  thus  and  so,  strange  to  relate, 

If  to  the  belle  your  news  is  a  surprise 
She'll  tell  you  that  'you  don'' t  say,'  sure  as  fate, 
With  open  eyes! 

A  piquant  cousin  of  the  hearty  West: 

"We  got  the  Fair  from  you,  you  know!"  said  she, 
"We've  half  your  gelt,  and  soon  shall  have  the  rest, 

And  no  one  bluffs  about  his  fam'ly  tree!" 

Stunned  by  her  verve,  yet  anxious  to  agree, 
"Our  girls,  with  all  their  style,  cannot  compare 

With  yours  for  looks,"  he  said.       And  thus  she  spake: 
With  elevated  brows,  inquiring  air, 
"For  Heaven's  sake!" 


59 


AVERAGE  PEOPLE 

THE  WOMAN 

She  may  know  a  little  bit  of  ev'ry  science  in  Creation; 

She  may  know  the  tricks  of  tradesfolk,   and  the  art   of 
simulation; 

Read  your  future  with  the  aid  of  chirosophic  divination; 

Write  an  idyl,  solve  a  riddle,  or  deliver  an  oration: 

She  may  speak  each   language  spoken  either  side  of  the 
equator, 

And  of  Hebrew,  Simian,  Sanskrit,  be  a  wonderful  trans 
lator; 

Tell  you  in  an  optic  twinkling  any  scholar's  Alma  Mater  ; 

Drive  a  tandem,  quote  at  random,  play  the  role  of  com 
mentator: 

May  know  ev'ry  constellation  that  begems  the  Emyrean, 

And  the  digest  governmental  of  the  festival  Fijian, 

Or  the  ne'er-completed  pattern  of  the  web  Peneiopean; 

Play  sonatas,  song  cantatas,  make  Herculean  tasks  pygmean. 

She  may  cram  her  precious  head  with  legal  knowledge 
over-full, 

And  get  herself  admitted  to  the  bar! 

But  by  the  rood,  she  doesn't  know  which  rope  she  ought 
to  pull 

When  she  wants  to  stop  a  car ! 

THE  MAN 

Though  a  man  may   boast  degrees  and  be  a  manor-born 

logician, 

Be  too  politic  an  one  to  ever  be  a  politician; 
Be  his  Club's  loved  chronicler  and  his  set's  first  statistician; 
Know  all  philosophic  ethics;  danger  of   slight  erudition  — 
Know  the  jasmine  from  the  jonquil,  musk  and  myrtle  from 

rosemary ; 


60 


Be  a  match  at  judging  gems  for  any  old-world  lapidary; 
Tell  a-trice  your  sauterne's  brand,  and  name  the    vintage 

of  your  sherry, 

And  discuss  at  length  the  future  of  the  footstool  planetary — 
May  be  able  to  prescribe  a  remedy  for  rheumatism, 
Write  a  screed  inscribed  to  Ibsen  on  the  charms  of  Real 
ism  ; 
Know     true     humor — never  bore  you   with  a  third-rate 

witticism, 

Sail  a  boat  and  kick  a  ball  and  yet  repeat  his  catechism, — 
Yet  withal  one  thing  he's  lacking  for  he  never,  never  can 
With  becoming  grace  and  skilful  learn  to  use  a  lady's  fan! 

LITTLE  LYRICS  OF  SORROW  * 
I 

Quite  unpremeditatedly 

I  made  my  mundane,  small  tntree, 
Impressionable,  diffident, 

Upon  my  country's  natal  day. 
And  till  I  reached  my  lesser  teens 

I  took  for  granted  the  parade 
And  all  the  noises  of  the  Fourth 

Exclusively  for  me  were  made. 

Yes,  the  awakening  was  rude, 

But  with  the  buoyant  heart  of  youth 
I  kept  my  equanimity, 

Glad,  very  glad,  to  learn  the  truth. 
'Tis  not  till  now  that  I  can  see 

My  error  in  a  birthday's  choice, 
When  generations  four  relate 

Its  sequel  with  composite  voice. 

*The  Author  was  born  oil  July  4th  ami  Washington  is  one 
ef  his  given  names. 


II 

Misguidedly  my  sponsors  gave 

My  country's  father's  name  to  me — 
But  doubt  not  that  I  honor  it 

Because  I  write  'misguidedly' ! 
It  is  because  through  life  I  must 

Be  governed  by  a  precedent 
For  ev'ry  deed  and  utterance, 

Yet  fail  of  great  accomplishment. 

Just  ponder  my  distressing  state, 

You  who  with  tongues  bond-free  and  glib 
Know  the  delight  of  coloring 

The  cloth  of  an  artistic  fib! 
I,  Truth's  drab  road  am  forced  to  take 

Day  in,  day  out, —  to  just  confess 
A  love  for  harmless  Fiction's,  to 

Be  taxed  with  my  unworthiness. 

EMANCIPATED 

By  my  own  act  I've  just  escaped 

A  thraldom  most  appalling 
Wherein  Time  bound  me  link  by  link 

With  fetters  strong  and  galling. 
From  golden  chains  of  pleasant  weight 

They  grew  to  leaden  slowly 
Till  I,  suspectless  and  serene, 

Was  in  their  power  wholly. 
It's  dissipated  now  and  I 

Could  cut  some  youthful  capers. 
A  brand-new  lease  of  life  is  mine — 

I've  stopped  my  Sunday  papers! 


When  first  I  crushed  the  Puritan 

That  ruled  in  me  and  read  them, 
They  were  a  source  of  profit  and 

Of  pleasure.     Now  I  dread  them. 
From  simple  folios  one  might  "do" 

Before  the  morning  service, 
They've  turned  to  things  whose  very  con — 

Templation  makes  me  nervous. 
The  octopus,  the  centipede, 

The  hydra — these  are  vapors 
Innocuous  and  roseate, 

Beside  the  Sunday  papers! 

I'm  freed  from  all  their  siren  charms 

Of  cheap  critiques  and  aimless; 
Of  vapid  social  drivel  and 

Of  Grundyisms  shameless. 
The  youngest  member'll  mourn,  no  doubt, 

That  horror  for  sane  scorn  meant — 
The  colored  supplement, — his  ma 

The  "Hints  on  Home  Adornment." 
My  girls  will  miss  the  "Fashion  Notes," 

My  boy  the  beauish  draper's, 
But  then  ^^-preservation's  first! 

I've  stopped  my  Sunday  papers. 

THE  MATRON  SOLILOQUIZES 

I  hate  to,  yes,  but  soon  1  must 
Wear  glasses  or  take  things  on  trust; 
Time's  is  a  slow  and  certain  thrust 

That  can't  be  parried. 
Was  it  not  yester-year  we  met  ? 
It  seems  like  yester^j,  and  yet 
Two  decades' — almost — suns  have  set 

Since  we  were  married. 


Ralph  will  protest  he  doesn't  see 
A  hint  of  any  change  in  me — 
He  always  did  (O  didn't  he!) 

Know  how  to  flatter. 
It's  true  I — well,  prink  just  a  mite 
More  than  I  used  to  think  was  right, 
But  that  is  entre  nous,  and  quite 

Another  matter. 

A  tell-tale  box  the  mail  just  brought 
In  motion  set  this  train  of  thought. 
A  valentine!      No  doubt  I  ought 

To  call  it  folly! 

But  Ralph  still  plays  the  lover  true — 
And  I  like  that?     Of  course  I  do! 
A  valentine  at  forty-two! 

Is  it  not  jolly? 

Heigho!     Time  flies  apace  indeed, 
But  Cupid's  not  behind  in  speed, 
And  here's  a  proof  Love's  nectar  need 

Not  turn  to  water. 
The  hand  is  not  like  Ralph's  a  bit! 
Is  this  my  name  ?      I  must  admit 
That  glasses  would  not  be — why  it — 

It's  for  my  daughter! 


64 


THE  CONFESSION   OF  A  MEAN  MAN 

When  someone  sent  a  valentine 
To  that  bewitching  wife  of  mine, 
With  manner  studiedly  supine 

I  wondered  who  did; 
But  felt  't  were 'futile  to  deny 
That  I'd  a  ringer  in  the  pie 
When  she,  with  an  unswerving  eye, 

Declared:  "Why,  you  did!" 

I've  always  deemed  the  man  verruckt, 

Be  he  a  swain  or  Benedict, 

Who  by  fair  means  or  foul  is  tricked 

To  waste  his  chink  so. 
Still,  as  I  liked  the  sentiment 
Emblazoned  on  the  token  sent 
I  must  confess  I  was  content 

To  have  her  think  so. 

And  when  she  started  to  revile 
(Albeit  'round  her  mouth  the  while 
There  played  a  happy  little  smile) 

With  <<O  how  foolish  !" 
I  led  her  on  with  fine  pretence 
Of  taking  most  profound  offence, 
And  aimed — not  in  the  grave-yard  sense  ! — 

At  looking  ghoulish. 

The  episode's  a  twelvemonth  old, 

And  now — the  truth  were  better  told — 

(Guile's  penalty  to  pay  in  gold) 

F  faith  I  rue  it. 

For  lest  th'  unknown  will  not  sustain 
The  good  repute  he  helped  me  gain, 
Although  my  pocket  dreads  the  drain 

Why,  7  must  do  it. 


TO  G.   W.  :  ON  HIS   BIRTHDAY 

To  prick  with  pessimistic  tacks 
That  bubble  tale  of  tree  and  axe 
And  show  you  possibly  were  lax 

Instead  of  truthful, 
Would  be  to  rob  of  bite  and  sup 
And  turn  to  gall  their  sweetest  cup, 
The  well-intentioned  builders-up 

Of  morals  youthful. 

So  we  will  grant  your  childhood  eye 
And  tongue  ne'er  looked  nor  spoke  a  lie- 
No  doubt  when  bad  boys  passed  you  by 

You  fairly  trembled ! 
But  that  in  vain  you  did  not  woo 
A  lady  fair — a  widow,  too.1 — 
Is  ample  proof  that,  later,  you 

At  least  dissembled. 

And  after  Hymen's  torch  was  lit 
And  she  began  to  tease  and  twit, 
(For  Woman  hasn't  changed  a  bit 

Since  the  Creation!) 
We're  safe  in  setting  up  the  claim 
That  you  upon  occasion  came 
To  practice — and  we  do  not  blame — 

Prevarication. 

AN  EASTER  SOLILOQUY 

How  early  in  the  forty  days 

The  penitential  mood 
Remarked  its  strict  observance  sink 

Deep  into  desuetude! 


66 


Its  charm  of  novelty  once  dimmed 
And  where  on  earth's  the  pow'r 

To  force  the  sacrifices  planned 
In  some  pre-Lenten  hour? 

Yet,  gladdened  by  an  extra  glass, 

Jack  will  wax  confident 
Tomorrow  that  he  has  denied 

Himself  a  deal  in  Lent. 
And  May  will  feel  well -scourged  as  with- 

The  little  Pharisee! — 
A  sigh  she  drops  an  extra  lump 

Of  sugar  in  her  tea! 

A  FORECAST 

For  Lettice  who  is  only  nine 

Life  still  holds  much  of  newness, 
And  dates  in  rubrics  bright  that  shine 

She  finds  of  all-too-fewness. 
So  April  First  must  needs  run  through 

From  blustrous  March  till  May-day, 
That  she,  our  queen,  turned  jester,  too, 

May  have  a  month  of  hey-day. 
Housed  by  the  season's  frequent  rains 

Is't  very  strange  she  rules  us? 
Or  that  we  take  the  greatest  pains 

To  make  her  think  she  fools  us? 

A  decade  hence,  we  both  foresee, 

Time  will  have  changed  things  greatly, 

For  Letty  has  unfilially 
Essayed  to  fool  us  lately 

In  little  things,  alas!  that  were 
Not  food  for  April-jesting. 


67 


(Both  grandmammas,  of  course,  declare 

We've  spoilt  her! — case  is  resting.) 
Then,  our  concern  will  be  to  plan, 

Should  such  a  need  aggrieve  us, 
To  make  her  think,  not  that  she  can, 

But  that  she  can* t  deceive  us. 

AN  EVEN  THING 
He— 

I  prithee,  Penseroso,  dry  your  eyes, 

If  it  be  only  for  a  little  while. 
I  tire  of  this  ever-doleful  guise 

That  you  put  on,  and  long  to  see  you  smile. 
Before  we  married  merrily  you  laughed 

Upon  the  slightest  provocation;  now 
You  have  forgotten  quite  the  pleasant  craft 

Of  keeping  hearts  from  sinking  in  the  slough 
Of  deep  despondence.      Then  you  never  frowned; 

To-day  the  clouds  hang  on  your  brow  for  hours. 
You  give  me  April  all  the  year  around 

Without  a  ray  of  sunlight  'tween  the  show'rs. 

She 

Sir,  if  I've  grown  unduly  lachrymose, 

'Tis  for  the  want  of  some  substantial  cheer. 
No  woman  breathes  who  would  not  wax  morose 

With  not  a  cent  to  spend  the  livelong  year. 
Before  we  married  I'd  at  least  enough 

To  pick  up  some  small  thing  on  bargain  days, 
And  now, — believe  me,  it  is  very  tough! — 

I  must  give  shopping  up  and  matinees. 
You,  too,  make  April  of  each  month  for  me — 

Sir,  it  affrights  me  none,  that  awful  look! — 
For  like  the  urchins  on  the  first,  you  see 

The  string's  kept  tied  upon  your  pocket-book. 


A    LAY    OF  MODERN    MILLINERY 

Imagine  this  complete  display 
Of  blossoms  on  a  single  day: 

The  butter-cups  and  daisies  pied 
With  spring's  field-forces  e'er  allied: 

The  roses  June  has  made  her  own 
In  every  cheerful  color  known: 

Ensanguined  poppies,  such  as  blaze 
Like  suns  in  August's  drowsy  ways: 

The  asters  that  in  purple  cool 
Young  autumn's  windy  garden  rule: 

Geraniums  of  vivid  hue, 

And  golden-anthered  fuchsias, — two 

Old-fashioned  flowers  that  often  still 
Are  wintered  on  a  window  sill, — 

And  violets,  the  doubly  dear, 
Which  now  belong  to  all  the  year. 

Green  leaves  and  wisps  of  snowy  lace 
Among  the  posies  have  a  place, 

While  ribbons, — yellow,  mauve,  cerise, 
Or  with  all  hues  blent  in  a  piece, — 

And  gauzes  that  with  dew  seem  wet 
The  wondrous  bower's  bound'ries  set. 

What  do  I  sing?      A   festal  booth? 

A  Flower  Show?      No,  in  good  sooth, 

(And  have  you  not  conjectured  that?) 
It's  only  Flora's  Summer  hat! 


69 


UPON  SAYING  GOOD-BY 

Well,  dear,  at  least  you  start 

Upon  a  perfect  day ! 
I  wish  the  sunshine  to  my  heart 

Would  find  its  cheering  way  ! 

Just  now  it's  dark  with  dread — 
Why  must  you  leave  so  soon  ? 

Last  year  you'd  not  be  forced,  you  said, 
To  go  away  in  June. 

The  year  before — you  know 
That  was  our  marriage  year — 

You  stayed  at  home — how  long  ago  ! — 
All  summer  with  me,   dear. 

Have  /  grown  less  fond  since 

Or  practiced  cold  neglect? 
Believe  me,  not  a  thousand  mints — 

How?     Yes,  the  trunks  are  checked. 

Write  often  ?      I  should  say ! 

I'm  more  than  likely  to, 
Seeing  I've  been  enjoined  to  play 

Cashier  each  time  I  do. 

Your  train's  made  up  I  think — 

More  flowers  ?     Why,  what  on  earth  ! 
You'll  leave  me  on  bankruptcy's  brink  ! — 

Of  course,  a  lower  berth! 

What's  that  ?      You  needn't  fret. 
I  shan't  have  time  to  kill 


70 


Since  some  way  must  be  hit  on  yet 
To  pay  your  outfit  bill. 

You  haven't  half  you  want  ? 

Great — well,  at  least,  don't  cry! 
Some  things  I  can  stand,  that  I  can't ! 

Another  ki — !  Good-by! 

REVERSING  THE    POSITIONS 

(  Being  one  side  of  a  conversation  on  July  $t 

Albion  lost  another  daughter 

Yesterday.      Who  could  foresee  that 
When  she  crossed  the  nahsty  water 

The  result  of  it  would  be  that  ? 
Certainly  /  never  thought  to 

Be  won  from  my  single  churlhood 
And  a  port  of  transport  brought  to 

By  a  slip  of  English  girlhood. 

Eyes  like  corn-flow' rs  out  of  Devon — 

(That's  the  shire  to  which  I  owe  her. ) 
Where  they  smile  it's  simply  Heaven! 

That  profane  ?  You  do  not  know  her ! 
Such  a  day  for  such  surrender  ? 

Hang  tradition!  I'm  for  scorning 
Aught  that  stops  Love's  legal  tender, 

And,  besides,  she  sails  this  morning. 

What  would  my  revered  forbear  say, 

That  helped  win  the  Revolution  ? 
Don't  much  care,  but  he'd,  I  dare  say 

None  of  suave  circumlocution. 
Fourth  or  not,  I  felt  I  couldn't 

Risk  the  loss  of  Her  Transcendence, 
So  I  signed  my,  and  who  wouldn't? 

Declaration  of  Dependence. 


EXERCISING  THEIR  PREROGATIVE. 

Sibyl  scoffed  at  all  the  omens 

Given  credence  Halloween; 
(There  is  nothing  in  a  name!) 

Was  she  taken  for  the  daughter 
Of  some  yokel  Verdant  Green? 

"Not  the  same!" 
Balderdash!  But  yes!  O  yes!  she'd 

Join  the  others  in  the  fun, 
And  the  oracles  were  strangely 

In  her  favor,  ev'ry  one. 
Love  and  riches,  she  would  win  them ! — 

Sibyl  now  sung  very  small: 
Doubtless  there  was  something  in  them 
After  all! 

Emily  in  no  uncertain 

Voice  proclaimed  her  changeless  faith 
In  All-Hallows  horoscopes : 

One  may  wrest  the  Future's  secrets 
From  the  late  October  wraith 

Ere  she  slopes. 
Come !  The  time  is  now  propitious 

For  the  round  of  rites  occult — 
But  each  spell  she  cast  gave  Emmy 

An  unbearable  result. 
Him  she  loved  would  never  choose  her, 

But  another.      She  guessed  not, 
And  the  whole  thing  was  (excuse  her) 
Simply  rot  ! 


MAKING  HER  TASK  EASY 

Most  men  (and  women)  when  Thanksgiving  comes 

Perversely  cast  about  for  evil  haps, 
Determined  quite  to  find  no  luscious  plums 

Among  the  bitter  fruit  upon  their  laps. 
Most,  but  not  all,  for  I've  a  gentle  wife 

Who  sees  all  sins  met  in  unthankfulness, 
And  makes  a  point  at  ev'ry  turn  in  life 

Of  finding  good  in  inauspicious  dress. 

Indeed,  this  year  so  keenly  did  she  feel 

The  greatness  of  her  debt  that,  worried  thin 
By  doubt,  she  came  to  me  with  this  appeal: 

"In  giving  thanks,  O  where  shall  I  begin?" 
I'd  failed  on  this  before,  as  well  she  knew, 

But  now  I  had  a  candid  answer  pat: — 
"If,  as  you  say,  I'm  all  the  world  to  you, 

Give  thanks  for  me  and  let  it  go  at  that!" 

THE  QUESTIONS  OF  THE  DAY 
(THANKSGIVING,  1898) 

Not  foreign  policies 

Nor  ethics  of  right  living 
Are  of  the  subtleties 

Considered  at  Thanksgiving. 
But  where  good  appetite 

Sits  down  with  good  digestion 
Instead,  "Dark  meat  or  white?" 

Is  quite  the  leading  question. 

To-day  is  not  the  day 

To  overlook  the  Navy ! 
The  Army,  too,  's  O.  K., 

But  let's  discuss  the  gravy. 


73 


Your  host  with  many  men 

May  hold  that  War's  a  blessing — 
War's  clean  forgotten  when 

He  asks:  "Will  you  take  dressing?" 

We  shake  all  business  cares, 

Lay  down  all  social  crosses, 
And  more  prosaic  wares 

Give  place  to  soup  and  sauces. 
No  question,  old  or  new, 

Surer  of  favor  high  is 
Than  "Can't  I  help  you  to 

Another  piece  of  pie  ?"  is! 


In  triplets,  if  you  please,  I'll  show 
How  far,  Thrift  managing  the  bow, 
A  turkey  may  be  made  to  go. 

The  neck  went  first  to  clerkly  Shears 
Whose  collars  trespass  on  his  ears — 
He  needed  it,  by  all  the  spheres! 

Miss  Smith,  who  plays  the  harp  and  sings 

Divinely  (sic!)  angelic  things, 

Lacked  nothing  when  she  got  the  wings. 

And  to  my  boon  companion  Jack, 
Who  summered  on  a  cycle  track, 
Appropriately  fell  the  back. 

A  maid  of  forty  unpossest, 

Who  says  that  Man's  a  flint  at  best, 

Found  tenderness  in  one  male  breast. 

The  Scotts,  who  boast  but  slender  pegs, 

Can  '  gowf '  in  kilts  and  filibegs 

Since  served,  ye  ken,  with  sightly  legs. 


74 


The  liver  Mrs.  Grubb  avers 

Of  all  the  gobbler  she  prefers — 

There's  something  wrong  (she's  sure)  with  hers! 

With  metaphoric  mat  de  mer 

Smith  suffers  every  when  and  where — 

The  seasoned  gizzard  was  bis  share. 

The  household's  daughter,  thin  and  tart, 
Declaring  that  /  had  no  heart 
Pressed  on  me  that  important  part. 

And  thus  the  bird  was  lost  to  view: 
Yet  by  some  more  than  wondrous  coup 
Next  day  we  all  had  turkey  stew. 

PAST,  FUTURE  AND  PRESENT 

The  Koran,  which  in  Allah's  name 

Exhorts  to  righteous  living, 
Deep  in  the  context  makes  a  claim 

One  grants  without  misgiving. 
It's  this,  that  since  the  earliest  man 

Drew  breath — nor  will  until  the  last  has — 
The  world's  shown  no  face  brighter  than 

The  woman  with  a  cloudless  past  has. 

But  in  a  sunny  later  year 

A  lusty  troubadour  tells, 
His  ballad  making  love's  worth  clear, 

That  of  all  seen  of  mortals, 
The  brightest  face,  or  here  or  yon, 

(With  no  intention  to  dispute  your 
Blest  word,  O  Prophet!)  shines  upon 

The  woman  with  a  pleasing  future. 


75 


And  I,  I  cannot  well  agree 

With  either  seer  or  lyrist ! 
For  here's  a  face  would  rescue  me 

From  dumps  the  very  direst, 
Whose  owner's  still  oblivious  quite 

Alike  of  past  and  future  pleasant — 
(She's  looking  at  me  as  I  write!) — 

A  woman  with  a  Christmas  present. 

WINTER  SPORTS— A  CONTRAST 

There's  Percy  in  his  Inverness 
And  all  the  latest  frills  beneath: 
A  blade  dulled  sadly  in  a  sheath 

That's  worthy  better  steel.      No  less 

His  heart  is  heavy  than  his  debts, 
Though  he  disclaims  a  part  in  Care 
And  quite  deceives  us  with  an  air 

Light  as  the  salary  he  gets. 

And  here's  a  chap  whose  wardrobe  runs 
To  plaids  and  stripes  of  wondrous  size; 
He's  cash  to  burn  and  wits  to  prize, 

A  stranger  he  to  writs  and  duns. 

Deplore  his  lack  of  taste,  contest; 
By  which  he  lives,  the  doubtful  art, 
But  envy  him  the  merry  heart 

Inside  O'Brien's  sealskin  vest. 


AN  APPRECIATION 

(  Of  an  old  sport  by  one*) 

The  lroyal  game  of  golf,'  indeed! 

How  came  such  honor  to  it  ? 
A  nice  diversion?  O  agreed ! 

But  this  is  how  /  view  it: 
A  famous  way  to  take  the  air, 

When  you  have  termed  it  regal 
You've  conjured  whist  from  solitaire 

And  called  the  finch  an  eagle. 
If  tramping  downs  tagged  by  a  tribe 

Of  shuffling,  snuffling  caddies 
Is  pleasant,  how  would  you  describe 

The  hockey  of  our  daddies? 

Pea-coated,   one's  less  picturesque, 

Than  in  plaid  hose,  I  grant  you. 
And  you  can  find  an  air  grotesque 

'Round  hockey-sticks,  now  can't  you? 
(The  man-made  clubs  of  golf  are  goods 

On  which  Art's  banner  perches; 
We  cut  the  others  in  the  woods 

From  youngling  oaks  and  birches. ) 
The  new-old  game's  all  right,  in  short, 

For  summer  days  and  sunshine, 
But  when  it  comes  to  honest  sport, 

Why  hockey  shines  as  none  shine ! 

What  time  the  grassy  putting  green's 

A  green  no  longer  vernal, 
The  fettered   lake  supplies  the  means 

To  happiness  hibernal. 


77 


So  when,  perforce,  in  some  lone  spot 

Your  golf-ball's  getting  dusty, 
And,  likewise,  banished  and  forgot, 

Your  cleik  and  mashie  rusty, 
Don't  smoke  your  pipe  in  idleness 

And  swear  your  case  is  rocky, 
But  cut  a  stick  and  learn  to  bless 

The  virile  game  of  hockey. 


THE    CONCEITS  OF   A   GENERAL 
LOVER 


WINTER    ROSES 

The  roses  on  her  hat  are  false  as  Art, 

And  only  Art  can  make  them: 
Those  at  her  throat  will  fade  and  fall  apart 

As  soon  as  chill  winds  shake  them  ; 
But  ten  small  buds  she  carries  in  her  muff 

Sweet  as  all  June's  together, 
That  through  life's  length  'twould  be  delight  enough 

To  shield  from  cruel  weather. 
With  hot-house  wares  she's  prodigal,  indeed, 

But — that !  for  all   my  ruses, 
To  give  me  them,  though  earnestly  I  plead, 

She  steadfastly  refuses. 

LEIGH  HUNT  REVISED 

I  kissed  Jenny  when  we  met, 

Leaning  o'er  the  chair  she  sat  in; 
Time,  you  rogue,  who  love  to  get 

Scandals  on  your  list,  put  that  in — 
Tell  the  world,  but  let  it  know 

That  her  summers  are  not  many — 
Jenny  couldn't  kiss  me,  so 

I  kissed  Jenny. 

IN  DOUBT 

I  tried  to  kiss  her  and  she  challenged  me, 
But  not  the  ghost  of  an  advantage  lies 

In  choice  of  weapons  since  1  cannot  find 

One  that  will  match  the  daggers  in  her  eyes. 

If  Cupid  were  my  second  I  might  beg 
Or  steal  from  him  one  little  potent  dart, 

Though  I'd  not  be  surprised  to  find  the  rogue 
Has  emptied  his  whole  quiver  in  my  heart. 


Are  they  in  league?      Or  has  he  aimed  too  high 
Half-blinded  by  the  brilliance  of  her  eyes, 

And  lodged  two  arrows  there  that  I  mistake 
For  hostile  signs  of  anger  and  surprise? 

THE  CAPTIOUS  FAIR 

When  I  paint  Constance  I  invest 

The  sylph  with  every  taking  grace 

Of  mode  and  mien  and  form  and  face 
Of  which  her  sex  may  be  possest. 
Fair  in  her  own  sweet  right  is  she, 

Yet  with  complacence  she  concurs 

With  me,  assuming  fairness  hers 
But  by  the  picture's  courtesy. 

And  is  the  elf  to  me  thus  kind  ? 

Not  so!     Instead,  her  cruel  eyes 

Search  out,  enlarge,  and  censor-wise 
Pass  on  my  failings.      Should  she  find 
All  manly  charms  of  mortal  ken 

Some  day  in  my  poor  person  blent 

She  still  would  voice  her  old  lament 
That  'I  am  not  like  other  men!' 

HER  VALENTINES     1898-9 

Last  year  Jack  gave  Mabel  a  highly-wrought  panel 
Of  festive,  fat  Loves  on  a  tropical  scene; 

This  year  his  coin  flows  in  a  different  channel — 

(They    wedded    while    leaves    were    still    tender    and 
green) — 

For  lately  a  need  has  arisen  of  flannel, 

And  muslin  and  wool  and  a  sewing-machine. 


A  DRIVE  AND  ITS  CONSEQUENCE 

I  drove  that  night.      The  roads  were  bad, 

The  horses  off  their  mettle  : 
And  worse,  I  knew  next  day  I  had 

A  precious  bill  to  settle. 
They  cracked  their  little  jokes   behind, 

As  cheap  as  shilling  crocks; 
But  yet,  somehow,  I  didn't  mind 

With  Nellie  on  the  box. 

She  volunteered  to  share  my  seat  — 

We  were  not  well-acquainted  — 
I  thought  I'd  find  her  obsolete 

And  dull  as  she  is  painted. 
But  ere  old  Time  had  turned  his  keys 

In  half  a  fortnight's   locks 
I  sent  a  ring  from  Tiffany's 

With  "  Nellie  "  on  the  box. 

HOW  TIMES  HAVE  CHANGED 

How  times  have  changed  since  shears  and  paste, 

An  idle  hour,  a  little  taste, 

An  almanac  to  rob  of  "lines" 

Gave  us  a  stack  of  valentines — 

One  for  each  house  upon  the  block. 

The  rising  generations  mock 

The  old-year  way — what  do  they  not? 

A  time-piece  gemmed,  a  house  and  lot 

Are  more  consistent  with  these  days! 

Yet  here  is  proof  one  still  essays 

To  cultivate  simplicity — • 

A  box  of  pinks  from  Marjorie! 


THE  THRIFT  OF  ALICIA. 

I  sneer  not  at  frugality, 

I  who  must  practice  it, 
And  scrimping  where  the  brunt's  on  me 

I  do  not  mind  a  bit. 
I  polish  my  own  boots  and  press 

My  clothes,  refresh  my  hats, 
And  when  they  hint  at  shabbiness 

Make  over  my  cravats. 

Alicia  takes  pleasure,  too, 

In  small  economies, 
As  I  encourage  her  to  do, 

My  hope  in  future  ease. 
But  I  protest  with  high-held  hand, 

When  (O  a  woman's  wiles!) 
She  keeps  tab  on  her  kisses,  and 

A  time-lock  on  her  smiles. 

To-day  she  capped  the  climax  quite 

Of  all  economy, 
(I  cannot  speak  of  it,  nor  write, 

Save  confidentially!) 
And  with  good  Barkis  she  may  be 

Well-called  a  little  'near' — 
She's  sent  the  valentine  to  me 

I  sent  to  her  last  year! 

THE  CONCEIT  OF  A  GENERAL  LOVER 

The  usual  monotony 

Of  St.  Val's  day  to  vary, 
I  think  this  year  that  I'll   indulge 

In  just  a  mild  vagary, 
And  make  each  one  with  claims  on  me 

An  offering  of  flowers 
Instead  of  runes  in  paper  lace 

Or  sweets  in  satin  bowers. 


Of  course  I  first  must  study  up 

The  language  blossoms  speak  in, 
(A  tongue,  I  may  as  well  confess, 

I'm  lamentably  weak  in!) 
Else  I  might  choose  for  Natalie 

Some  posy  which  dispenses 
Suggestive  fragrance  meeter  for 

That  wee  nose  of  Hortense's. 

So  let  me  see.      The  hyacinth 

For  jealousy  does  duty; 
The  rose  a  sweet  exponent  is 

For  grace  and  pride  and  beauty. 
Enough!      'Tis  here  my  little  course 

In  floral  lingo  closes — 
A  hyacinth  for  Natalie, 

Hortense  and  Bernice,  roses. 

And  yet,  on  second  thought,  perhaps 

The  thing  were  better  ordered 
If  I  send  hyacinths  to  all 

With  just  some  green  stuff  bordered. 
A  double  service  these  will  do 

Since  they,  the  girls,  Lord  love  'em! 
Are  jealous  of  each  other,  I 

Of  each  man's  daughter  of  'em. 

THE  PROXY  OF  A  SAINT 

(Lines  to  go  with  Barbara1 's  valentine') 
This  grinning  lump  of  devilment 

In  shabby  blue 
Will  hardly — careless,  impudent, — • 

Commend  himself  to  you! 
With  tales  of  bloody  border  wars 

His  daily  fare, 


Small  wonder  he  brings  to  our  doors 

Wild  eyes  and  wilder  hair. 
No  grace  nor  hint  of  grace  is  his 

To  sing  or  paint, 
He  swears,  he  smokes,  and  yet  he  is 

The  proxy  of  a  saint. 

And  here  may  be  a  lovely  gem 

Still  in  the  rough — 
There  are  in  old  Earth's  diadem 

Stars  cut  from  poorer  stuff! 
Love  will  some  day  with  its  sweet  thrill 

Make  him  anew, 
And  meanwhile,  for  a  fee,  he  will 

Help  me  make  love  to  you. 
So  prithee  smile  upon  him,  Bab, 

True-blue  is  he 
From  boots  to  bonnet  with  its  cab — 

Alistic  A.  D.  T. 

Smile,  but  restrict  its  brightness,  do, 

This  is  not  I! 
I'm  waiting  here  to  learn  if  you 

Will  see  me  by  and  by. 
The  violets  I  send  are  cold, 

But  sweet  as  they 
And  warmer  far  and  worth  more  gold 

The  words  I  want  to  say. 
And  if  you'd  answer  me — anon! 

Take  warning,   please, 
It's  risky  putting  slights  upon 

A  proxy  of  St.  V's! 


86 


AT  THE  FEBRUARY  TEA-PARTY 

When  I  arrived  in  regimentals  trig 

She  stood  dispensing  tea  and  sally-lunns, 
Transformed  by  stiff  brocade  and  powdered  wig, 

The  fairest  of  all  Lady  Washingtons. 
In  time  I  craved  the  favor  of  a  cup 

Of  her  own  savory,  delicious  brew, 
Which  serving  me  and  looking  coyly  up 

She  caught  and  eyed  askance  my  buff  and  blue. 
Her  glance  said  plainly  as  a  spoken  word 

In  donning  them  I'd  gone  a  step  too  far, 
For  my  forbears  wore  red  for  George  the  Third, 

And  Mattie  is  a  loyal  D.  A.  R. 

So  when  the  urns  were  drained  and  growing  cold, 

To  calm  the  torrent  of  a  rising  gorge 
And  justify  my  action  I  made  bold 

Myself  to  liken  to  that  other  George. 
She  listened,  then  incredulously  asked: 

"And  wherein,  pray,  does  the  resemblance  lie? 
Take  care,  sir,  that  no  innuendo's  masked 

By  the  fine  words  with  which  you  make  reply!" 
"It's  simply  this,"    I  said,  intensely  grim, 

"Where  he  was  vanquished  I'm  content  to  be; 
And  what  fair  Martha  Custis  did  for  him, 

Another  Martha's  fairly  done  for  me!" 

A  LENTEN  WISH 

I  would  that  all  the  year  were   Lent, 

For  then  Adele  might  be 
As  contrite  and  as  penitent 

For  all  her  sauce  to  me, 
Through  twelve  long,  blissful  months  in  lieu 

Of  forty  fleeting  days, 
And  tiring  soon  of  rack  and  rue, 

Resolve  to  mend  her  ways. 

87 


I  would  that  all  the  year  were  Lent, 

For  maybe  ere  its  close 
Adele  would  find  her  substance  spent 

In  easing  others'  woes; 
And  then,  from  routs  a  fugitive, 

Reduced  to  poverty, 
She  might,  with  nothing  else  to  give, 

Give  up  herself — to  me! 

AT  VESPERS 

In  solemn  mood  befitting  Lent 

She  skurries  to  her  pew, 
And  looks  to  neither  right  nor  left 

As  she  is  wont  to  do. 
I  follow  with  a  beating  heart 

Along  the  dim,  wide  aisle, 
To  find  my  coming  quite  unmarked 

By  either  nod  or  smile. 

(The  church  is  cold  to-night,  I  think.) 

She  does  not  even  share 
Her  books  with  me  and  stands  remote; 

But  when  we  kneel  in  pray'r 
Some  friendly  power  bridges  o'er 

The  space  between  us,  and, 
Assured  that  no  one  else  can  see, 

She  lets  me  hold  her  hand. 


NATALIE  LOOKS  FORWARD 

With  what  good  taste  this  Lenten  maid 

Is  garbed.      No  haughty  peeress 
That  Worth  and  Redfern  serve  can  boast 

A  style  so  sui  generis. 
The  ermine  beastie  at  her  throat, 

The  jet  and  velvet  turban, 
And  in  her  muff  the   violets, 

Proclaim  she's  strictly  urban. 

But  these  are  minor  matters  which 

'Tvvere  frivolous  to  rave  o'er — 
Mark  rather  how  devout  she  is 

With  Youth  still  in  her  favor. 
Her  kneeling  pose  is  grace  itself", 

Her  lips,  they  never  falter, 
But  move  like  clock-work  through  the  pray'rs, 

The  Collect  and  the  Psalter. 

Yet  I  suspect  that  she  is  tired 

Of"  Lenten  sacrifices, 
And  wearies  for  a  swift  return 

To  her  small,  pleasant  vices; 
For  as  I  sa:  behind  last  night, 

Upon  her  charms  a  feaster, 
I  heard  her  chuckle  to  herself: 

"Just  one  more  week  to  Easter!" 

AT  EASTER 

The  music,  the  flowers,  the  palms  and  the  crowd 

Well-groomed  and  perfumed  are  with  youth  re-endowed, 

And  even  the  cushions  that  cumber  my  pew 

In  old-year  magenta  look  cosily  new. 

The  saints  though  in  glazier-set  bounds  sternly  shut 

Are  splendid  with  smiles, 

And  the  sun  in  the  aisles 
Lifts  ev'ry  heart  out  of  its  work-a-day  rut. 


And  Milly,  my  neighbor  austere,  does  she  share 

This  general  respite  from  winter  and  care  ? 

Is  her  heart  upraised,  being  newly  unpent 

From  the  nominal  gyves  of  a  nominal  Lent? 

Um — well — yes,  perhaps! — and  it's  still  hardly  that, 

For  though  lifted  out 

Of  the  groove,  I  misdoubt 
Milly's  heart's  gone  no  further  aloft  than  her  hat! 

A  PLAN  THAT  WORKED  TOO  WELL 
Quoth  he:  "Diana's  at  her  best, 

The  wind  is  down,  the  pond  a  glare, 
And  no  one  of  her  sister  months 

Is  fairer  than  March  now  is  fair. 
Come,  bundle  up  and  get  your  skates, 

To  waste  such  evenings  parlor-pent 
Is  little  short  of  sacrilege!" 

Quoth  she:    "I  can't!      I'm  keeping  Lent. 

"But,  as  I  wouldn't  have  you  share 

Unwillingly  my  sacrifice, 
Go  call  for  May.      The  pagan,  she 

Is  always  ready  for  the  ice. 
And,"  (laughing,)  "with  true  Lenten  zeal, 

Since  she's  no  brother  of  her  own, 
I'll  give  you  up  to  her  until 

The  season's  over — as  a  loan!" 

A  fortnight  after  Easter  he 

Received  "A  few  short  lines  just  to 
Remind  you  you  were  only  loaned, 

And  not  surrendered  wholly.      Do 
Come  up!      I'll  be  at  home  to-night 

To  no  one  else.      Yours,  Millicent.'r 
To  which  he  answered:      "Sorry,  but 

I  can't!      You  see  I'm  keeping  lent!'* 


90 


A  LENTEN  ADDRESS  TO  CAVILLERS 

If  Myra's  eyes,  which  she  should  hide 

Whilst  making  her  responses, 
Instead  burn  impiously  beside 

The  dim  lights  in  the  sconces, 
And  when  she  altarwards  should  look 

Soar  dreamily  above  it, 
Ignoring  quite  my  offered  book — 
What  of  it  ? 

And  if  the  glowing  swain  who  lolls 

Behind  the  pillar  yonder, 
No  grace  his  rectorship  extols 

Finds  half  worth  while  to  ponder, 
But  in  the  seraphim  that  perch 

About  discovers  charms  that 
Were  better  studied  out  of  church — 
What  harm's  that? 

Shall  not  the  maiden  win  a  share 

Of  happiness  in  thinking 
The  prophet  in  the  window  there 

(No  doubt  she's  caught  him  winking!) 
Has  eyes  like  some  one  very  dear? 

It's  nothing  to  cry  'Fie!'  for! 
She  may  have  matters  grave  next  year 
To  sigh  for. 

And  shall  the  boy  not  take  delight — 

Delight  not  Time's  to  cancel — 
Remarking  in  the  gilt  and  white 

Madonna  of  the  chancel, 
A  likeness  to  some  precious  she 

Of  flesh  and  blood?      Remember 
His  pulse  beats  May  time,  yours,  ah  me! 
December. 


Carp  on  then !      You  can  force  at  best 

But  tittles  of  devotion 
From  hearts  that  ruddy  Youth's  behest 

Keeps  in  delightful  motion. 
Not  all  hymns  that  inspire  and  stir 

The  soul  are  in  smug  covers, 
And  no  Lent's  in  the  calendar 
For  lovers! 

WHERE  I  COME  IN 

Love  ne'er  hath  so  emboldened  me 

That  I  could  gently  touch   her  hair, 
But  with  rough  hands  March  brazenly 

Takes  liberties  and  license  there, 
And  makes  incessantly  to  cheat 

Love  of"  his  very  own  emprise 
When  Bernice  ventures  on  the  street 

By  throwing  dust  into  her  eyes. 

From  the  blue  pompon  in  her  toque 

Down  to  the  hem  ot  skirts  perverse, 
These  winds  run  riot  and  provoke 

Me  to  green  jealousy — and  worse ! 
They  fan  her  fair  skin  till  it  glows, 

But  I'm — with  confidence  I  speak — 
The  peer  of  any  wind  that  blows 

At  painting  roses  on  her  cheek. 


OF   APRIL   SUNSHINE 

I  love  bright  days  when  beats  the  sun's  fierce  fire 

Full  hotly  in  my  face,  and  so  I  rail 
At  April's  way  of  whelming  roads  in  mire 

And  stretching  over  us  skies  spectre  pale. 
This  morning,  nathless,  whilst  the  clouds  repaid 

The  anxious  eye  with  naught  but  sombre  tints, 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  brightness  that  has  made 

Me  quite  content  with  darkness  ever  since. 
A  crocus,  many-hued,  flamed  in  my  face, 

A  yellow  daffodil  gleamed  through  the  pane, 
But  'twas  from  her  that  I  took  heart  of  grace 

When  I  saw  Phoebe  tripping  through  the  rain. 

The  chroniclers  of  Fashion's  doings,  who 

The  lore  of  woman's  gear  have  down  so  pat,. 
A  deal  of  work  waste  on  a  satin  shoe, 

And  more  upon  the  marvels  of  a  hat. 
They  see  so  much  by  artificial  light 

Of  brilliant  trinketry   and  furbe'.ows, 
It  follows,  as  the  day   succeeds  the  night, 

Their  views  must  be  factitious  as  are  those. 
If  screeds  on  party  gowns  attract,  why  you 

May  still  go  revel  in  their  arrant  bosh 
But  fairer  picture  than  they  ever  drew 

Is  Phoebe  in  her  boots  and  mackintosh. 


93 


THE  WAYS  OF  BLANCHE  IN  SPRING 

When  Blanche  apprised  me  that  she  would 

Go  in  tor  gardening  this  year, 
I  pictured  grace  and  lustihood 

In  Gainsborough  and  muslin  sheer 

Selecting  me  a  boutonniere 
From  bed  or  bush  or  trellis  wares. 
Or,  gloved  in  yellow  mousquetaires 

To  shield  her  from  their  thorny  stalks, 
Cutting  us  roses  as  in  pairs 

We  idled  down  box-bordered  walks. 

And  so  my  disillusionment 

Was  sorry  and  complete  enough 
When  I  discovered  she  is  bent 

On  raising  such  plebeian  stuff 

As  greens  and  turnips.      Jove!      it's  tough 
These  misty  dawns  that  never  break 
To  see  her  moiling  with  a  rake 

(And  all  to  not  a  soul's  behoof!) 
In  overshoes  and  wide-awake, 

Or  spading  in  a  waterproof! 

But  hers  is  just  an  April  whim 
I  fear,  if  half  the  truth  were  told, 

And  when  the  tender  shoots  and  slim 

Come  struggling  through  the  steaming  mould 
Belike  they'll  find  her  ardor  cold. 

Last  year  a  seed  sunned  by  her  eyes 

Took  root  and  blossomed — orchid-wise — 
And  in  a  lonely  heart  to-night 

The  flower  languishes  and  dies 
For  want  of  just  a  little  light. 


94 


A  SONG  OF  SEEDTIME 

Has  April  always  been  so  fair 

Between  her  not  too  frequent  tears? 
Such  days  have  never  been  my  share 

In  all  my  five-and-twenty  years! 
I've  drunk  the  blue  of  sunny  skies 

At  Como,  Capri  and  Messina, 
But  in  my  own  more  beauty  lies  — 

I'm  making  garden  with  Selena. 

The  borders  of  the  shady  mall 

We've  sown  with  white  and  crimson  phlox, 
And  in  the  cranny  of  a  wall 

Laid  down  the  seeds  of  sundry  stocks. 
That  bed's  for  musk  and  mignonette, 

And  that  for  slips  of  sweet  verbena: 
The  time  flies  as  it  ne'er  flew  yet — 

I'm  making  garden   with  Selena. 

A  drift  of  snowy  clematis 

The  porch  will  cover  by-and-by; 
And  where  we  plant  this  chrysalis 

A  poppy's  banneret  will  fly. 
You  know  the  saw — "All  work,  no  play," 

But  when  the  glance  of  smug  Christina 
(Hang  chaperons)  is  bent  our  way, 

I'm  making  garden  with  Selena. 

I  love  the  soil,  but  never  knew 

Such  pleasure  lay  in  planting  flow'rs. 
O  April!  play  the  laggard,  do, 

Make  seconds  minutes,  minutes  hours, 
Hours  days,  and  I'll  sing  lustily 

Your  praises  in  a  smart  sestina. 
I'd  have  each  day  a  week — you  see 

I'm  making  garden  with  Selena. 


UR£S  IN  RURE— A  MOVING  TALE 

In  vain  the  May  wind  wanders  in 

And  softly  whispers  me, 
When  sultry  summer  days  are  done, 

Of  nights  in    Arcady. 
But  what  great  miracle  shall   my 

Arcadia  restore? 
The  place  that  knew  Calphurnia 

Will  know  her  nevermore. 

For  months  a  Damoclean  sword 

Hung  trembling  o'er  us  all  : 
We  shut  our  eyes,  and  laughed  and  sung, 

But  knew  that  it  would  tall. 
'Twas  on  the  year's  unhappy  scroll 

Immutably   decreed, 
That  she  must  go — Calphurnia ! 

And  now  she's  gone,  indeed. 

She  lives?  Ah !  Yes  she  lives,  but  where  ? 

Not  where  our  hearts  are  still; 
But  in  pa's  new  'colonial' 

At  East  Westmorelandville. 
A  suburb — near,  and  yet  so  far! — 

Whence — O  the  cruel  fate — 
For  him  that's  faring  cityward 

The  last  train  leaves  at  8  ! 


96 


UPON  BERNICE  IN  MAY 

I  like  not  May  for  reasons  of  mine  owne: 
And  one  is  this,  that  Bernice  then  is  prone 
To  squander  ye  faire  Dayes,  in  foule  Despight 
Of  my  fond  wishes,  saunt'ring  farre  from  sight 
Thro  Meddowes  that  an  111  denyes  to  me, 
Where  glossie  buttcr-Flowres  &  Couslips  be. 

I  like  not  May  for  reasons  of  mine  owne: 
And  one  is  this,  that  Bernice  then  is  prone 
To  turne  a  shire  o'  Couslips  into  Wine 
Which,  Candour  loving,  lie  not  count  divine 
To  pleasure  hir.      The  sorrie  Sequell's  this, 
That  I  sleepe  many  Nights  without  a  kisse. 

A  SMALL  ADMISSION 

Blue  sky,  green  fields,  June  air,  a  horse  provided 
That  could  proceed  sans  reins  when  necessary — 
Small  wonder  I  found  driving  pleasant,   very. 

(And  Flo  enjoyed  it  quite  as  much  as  I  did  !) 

It  was  a  splendid  chance — I  never  miss  one — 
To  say  a  pretty  thing  (Save  your  derision!), 
And  so  I  asked  "Would  life  not  be  elysian! 

If  it  were  just  a  long,  long  day  like  this  one?" 

And  Bob  in  ecstasy  kicked  o'er  his  traces 

When  she  made  answer,  thoughtfully,  demurely, 
Yet  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye:   "Yes,  surely 

The  lines  to-day  have  fall'n  in  pleasant  places." 


97 


HAZARDS 

I'm  learning  golf,  the  'royal  gamee', 

A  trifle  late,  perhaps, 
But  Sandy  spaes  that  just  the  same 

I'll  beat  thae  ither  chaps. 
Already  in  a  gowden  week 

I  swear  as  weel  as  he, 
And  ken  a  niblick  frae  a  cleik, 

A  bunker  frae  a  tee! 
Aye!  vera  sune  I'll  ken  it  a' — 

Save  how  to  keep  my  een 
Upon  the  ba',  the  doure,  wee  ba', 

When  Janet's  on  the  green. 

From  Sandy's  "Yon's  gey  braw,  my  lad  !  " 

1  modestly  infer 
That  my  'address'  is  no  sae  bad: 

(Wad  it  micht  be  tae  her!) 
My  drives  are  unco  guid,  says  he, 

I  play  my  hazards  well, — 
Ah !   do  I  ?   'Tis  not  clear  to  me, 

And  only  time  will  tell. 
Since  bonny  Janet  golfing  came 

My  bachelor  eyes  haeseen 
That  all  the  hazards  of  the  game 

Are  not  upon  the  green. 


98 


LINES  TO  HORTENSE  IN  JUNE 

Hortense,  'twas  when  the  leaves  in  crimson  hillocks  stood 

Like  sacrificial  pyres  about  the  autumn  wood 

That  we  first  meet  and  I  remember  clearly  that 

You  wore  a  feather,  black,  forbidding,  in  your  hat; 

A  jacket  tailor  made,  tight,  of  a  steely  blue, 

The  which  I  envied  not  proximity  to  you. 

For  from  your  distant  mien — what  else  could  one  infer? — 

I  thought  you  colder  than  the  leaves  around  us  were. 

And  first  impressions  last.  'Twas  in  your  sombre  furs 
I  saw  you  next,  Hortense.  "Those  arctic  airs  of  hers 
Would  blight  a  Greenland  rose — if  such  a  flovv'r  sees 

light!" 

I  inwardly  observed,  and  had  a  chill  outright. 
In  modish  ball-room  garb  I  saw  a  deal  of  you 
(Having  the  sense  of  sight),  and  marvelled  that  you  grew 
Colder  and  colder  still — though  when  you  waltzed  with 

me 
I  could  almost  believe  your  heart  beat  normally. 

But  now —  June's  be  the  praise — I  know  you  as  you  are: 

A  sister  to  the  rose,  kinswoman  to  a  star! 

Not  till  the  sweet  month  came  and  showed  you  at  your 

best 

In  simple  things  arrayed,  had  I  so  much  as  guessed 
That  summer  in  your  face  and  soft  winds  in  your  hair 
Could  work  such  wondrous  change  and  make  you  passing 

fair, 

Nor  till  I  saw  you  with  your  snowy  shirt-waist  on 
The  possibilities  of  dimity  and  lawn. 


99 


SHOWING  CAUSE 

Our  summer  haunt's  a  hammock  gay 

Beneath  old  trees 
That  shield  us  from  the  sun  and  sway 

In  every  breeze. 
On  wings  of  merriment  and  song 

The  hours  go  by; 
We're  happy  as  the  days  are  long — 

Finette  and  I. 

I  love  the  hammock — to  and  fro 

It  cleaves  the  shade; 
I  love  the  spot  in  Mexico 

Where  it  was  made: 
I  love  the  path  'neath  larches  tall 

Where  first  we  met; 
Summer  I  love — but  most  of  all 

I  love  Finette. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Reader,  you  say  my  song's  a  bore, 

Its  theme  is  trite; 
'Twas  used  last  year,  and  years  before; 

And  you  are  right ! 
No  doubt  the  statements  you  withhold 

Are  just  as  true, 
But — whisper! — though  all  else  be  old 

The  girl  is  new ! 

THE  MAGIC  OF  DRUSILLA 

A  small  simoom  at  ev'ry  turn — 

It's  leonine  July! 
My  eyes,  dust-lacerated,  burn, 

My  throat's  Sahara-dry. 


But  one  forgets  the  heat  and  thirst 

Where  happy  I  may  go 
To  weed  and  woo,  when  woo  I  durst, 

What  time  the  sun  is  low. 
For  sweeter  than  an  April  wood 

Is  that  thrice-favored  spot 
Which  knows  when  day  has  gone  for  good 

Drusilla's  sprinkling  pot. 

The  paths  that  gasping  deserts  were 

Turns  each  an  oasis 
With  all  the  nectar  in  its  air 

That  makes  for  summer  bliss; 
The  lawn's  from  parched  and  ghostly  shapes 

Drenched  back  to  emerald  youth; 
Naught  the  reviving  flood  escapes, 

(Not  even  I,  forsooth!) 
And  in  the  dripping,  spicy  box 

Is  balm  for  all-day  woes, 
When — O  the  pleasant  paradox! — 

Drusilla  mans  the  hose. 

OF  SUMMER  READING 

The  joys  that  summer  brings  us, 

Their  name  is  legion,  sure! 
A-bush  a  winged  choir  sings  us, 

And  every  leafs  a  lure. 
Deep  purple  groves  intone  us 

Chants  ne'er  transcribed  by  man, 
And  close-cropped  fields  enthrone  us 

Each  some  new  shape  of  Pan. 
But  ere  the  meadow  greens  get 

(Like  Mollie)  brown  and  stout, 
The  high-toned  magazines  get 

Their  Fiction  Numbers  out. 


Light  as  the  down  of  thistles 

Our  summer  books  should  be, 
And  bright  as  the  epistles 

That  Mollie  writes  to  me, — 
Not  allopathic  doses 

Of  Grub  Street  stuff  that  shows 
Man  still  intensely  gross  is 

And  Woman  full  of  woes. 
When  Nature's  face  is  shining 

And  not  a  cloud  exists 
One  can't  be  bothered  whining 

With  cankered  pessimists. 

And  so  my  Fiction  Numbers 

Go  on  an  upper  shelf. 
The  tragedy  that  cumbers 

Their  pages  of  itself 
Would  make  a  new  Inferno; 

Their  comedy's  the  kind 
That  makes  one  wish  there  were  no 

Quills  comedy-inclined. 
But  if 'a  book  invites  me 

I  can't  respond,  it's  clear, 
While  Mollie  daily  writes  me 

The  gossip  at  the  Pier. 

THE  LITTLE  ONE  MAN  WANTS 
Man  wants — but  pshaw!  you  know  the  lines 

As  well  as  I!      And  it  is  so. 
Desire's  a  little  light  that  shines 

Most  brightly  when  the  fuel's  low. 
Could  I,  for  instance,  still  pursue 

Some  boon  on  which  my  heart  is  set, 
Should  fate  propitious  help  me  to 

A  seat  on  Sophie's  wagonette? 


You've  guessed  it!     That's  the  only  boon 

I  crave  this  side  of  summer's  rout. 
Give  me  a  clear-skied  afternoon 

In  August  with  the  poppies  out, 
And  though  wealth,  fame  are  still  to  win, 

With  no  propensity  to  fret, 
I'll  find  a  score  of  Edens  in 

A  seat  on  Sophie's  wagonette. 

I  lack  ambition?      Well,  perhaps. 

That  gift  discriminated  falls! 
To  those — shall  we  say  favored? — chaps 

A  place  in  legislative  halls! 
Or  stocks-and-bonds  supremacy, 

Seems  all  there  is  in  life  to  get. 
Give  them  their  share,  but  let  mine  be 

A  seat  on  Sophie's  wagonette. 

POLLIETTE  ON  THANKS-GIVING 

When  Polliette  bade  me  give  thanks 
For  all  the  gifts  vouchsafed  me, 

Recalling  Cupid's  recent  pranks 
I — well,  in  short,  it  chafed  me ! 

And  so,  though  innocency  masked 
Her  eyes — bright  as  a  star  they ! — 

I  looked  in  them  and  sternly  asked: 
''What  are  they  ?" 

"What  is  my  pelf,  I  prithee,  worth 

If  you  decline  to  share  it? 
My  name  may  echo  'round  the  earth, 

But  if  you  will  not  bear  it 
Fame  cannot  charm  nor  any  hues 

Illume  the  clouds  above  me. 
I'll  ingrate  be  whilst  you  refuse 
To  love  me." 


103 


Returning  my  stern  look  in  kind 

She  answered  me:    "And  yet,  sir, 
Since  all  your  joy's  to  me  confined 

There's  one  thing  you  forget,  sir, 
For  which  your  thanks  should  rise  above ! 

My  most  despondent  brother, 
'Tis  though  I  love  not  you,  I  love 
No  other." 

AN  AVATAR  OF  YULE 
She  wore  my  violets.      I  thought 

They've  'witched  her  with  their  woodland  wine, 
As  tremblingly,  unsure  and  shy, 

She  laid  a  cold  gloved  hand  in  mine. 
'Twas  our  betrothal  !  Had  I  dreamed, 

Or  was  love  hid  in  love's  alarms  ? 
I  kissed  her  hand  alone — she  seemed 

Too  fragile  for  a  lover's  arms. 

When  I  came  home  in  autumn,  ill, 

Heart-heavy,  wan  as  grew  the  year, 
I  saw  her  first,  impassive  still, 

In  something  very  white  and  sheer  : 
So  dreamily  she  welcomed  me 

From  Fever's  gyves  on  torrid  shores 
I  likened  her  despairingly 

To  those  pale  poppies  she  adores. 

But  here,  at  last,  this  Christmas  night, 

As  genie  of  the  children's  tree, 
Her  cheeks  aglow  with  candle-light, 

A  new  and  lovelier  lass  I  see. 
With  scarlet  ribbons  on  her  gown 

And  holly  berries  in  her  hair 
She  wears,  go  up  the  world  and  down, 

All  charms  that  make  a  woman  fair  ! 


104 


THE  TRANSIT  OF  MARS 

When  Eloise  looks  up  the  street, 

Puts  down  her  work — starts — flushes, 
And  turns  away  that  face  so  sweet 

Lest  I  should  note  her  blushes, 
I  wish  that  7  were  young  again, 

But  soon  she's  blithely  humming, 
Forgetting  me  and  all — and  then 

I  know  the  Captain's  coming. 

When  Eloise  with  downcast  eyes 

Once  more  bends  o'er  her  stitching 
And  looks,  as  her  bright  needle  flies, 

(If  maybe)  more  bewitching, 
You'd  say  she  wastes  no  thought  on  men, 

But  O  her  cheeks  are  glassing 
The  red  geranium  near! — and  then 

I  know  the  Captain's  passing. 

When  Eloise  looks  down  the  street 

With  eyes  wide-set  and  wistful, 
Her  cheeks  as  pale  as  any  sheet, 

Her  dear  mouth  drawn  and  tristful, 
I  wish  that  I  were  young  again, 

For  as  I  lift  her  sewing 
She  sighs,    O  such  a  sigh! — and  then 

I  know  the  Captain's  going. 


MARY'S    SPINET 

It's  hard  to  tell  who  first  sat  down 

Before  the  spinet  which 
Of  Mary's  own  delightful  room 

Employs  a  pleasant  niche. 
Perhaps  to  some  colonial  bride 

Who  wedded  pow'r  and  pelf, 
It  gave  the  airs  less  favored  ones 

Declared  she  gave  herself. 

The  spinet  stays,  although  the  dame 

Is  gone,  forgot  the  airs, 
To  greet  me  through  the  open  door 

As  I  go  up  the  stairs. 
I  may  not  set  my  foot  inside 

Although  I  long  to  peer 
About  its  case  to  see  if  it's 

The  real  stuff  or  veneer. 

I  never  know  how  dear  it  is 

Till  Mary  takes  a  hand — 
Or  two — in  practicing  duets 

Upon  her  concert-grand. 
Then  I,  with  gratitude  to  Time, 

Remember,  well-content, 
No  touch  the  spinet  answers,  for 

Its  playing  days  are  spent. 


1 06 


THE  SPECIALTY  OF  PRUE 

But  poor  Bohemians  are  we, 

For  when  the  play  is  done 
Though  cafes  blaze  enticingly 

We  find  home's  better  fun. 
I  see  a  something  brown  unpanned 

At  just  the  proper  toss, 
Her  brother  makes  a  salad,  and 

Fair  Prue  supplies  the  sauce. 

The  long  day's  doings  we  review; 

Discuss,  each  as  it  comes, 
The  scandal  of  the  avenue, 

The  horror  of  the  slums. 
And  if  the  chat  grows  prosy  then, 

As  we  grow  tired  and  cross, 
With  ready,  real  wit  again 

Fair  Prue  suppjies  the  sauce. 

Life,  one  may  just  as  well  admit, 

At  times  lacks  character — 
An  egg  sans  salt,  a  salmon  fit 

Without  the  Worcestershire! 
But  as  I've  said,    (to  her  at  that!) 

He'll  fret  'neath  no  such  loss 
To  whose  existence  sometime  flat 

Fair  Prue  supplies  the  sauce. 


107 


THE  LOVER  FINDS  A  WAY 
I'm  on  a  year's  probation, 

We're  both  too  young,  they  say  ; 
She's  at  her  education 

And  /  must  go  away. 
So  here  I'm  on  the  briny 

Bound  for  some  horrid  spa, 
Or  burg  remote  and  tiny, 

To  please  Pauline's  papa. 
If  I  could  drop  a  line  each  night — 
But  no!  he  said  I  mustn't  write. 

To-day  we're  due  at  Queenstown; 

A  short  week  old  my  vow, 
I  wish  it  were  Pauline's  town, 

The  time,  a  year  from  now! 
Cheer  up  ?  I'm  quite  unable! 

I've  tried — yet  just  to  say 
"I  love  you,  dear,"   by  cable 

Would  drive  these  blues  away. 
But — always  the  obdurate  sire — 
I  promised  her  I  wouldn't  wire. 

Said  she  :    "Be  diplomatic 

And  all  will  come  out  right. 
My  love  won't  grow  erratic 

Because  you're  not  in  sight!" 
But  O  my  heart  is  aching, 

And  I  must  ask  her  aid: 
How  can  I  without  breaking 

The  promises  I've  made? 
Why — precious  duffer  that  I  am — 
I'll  send  her  a  Marconigram! 


108 


HEIGHO 

Through  the  reading  of  the  psalm 
Sweet  and  slow, 
Soft  and  low, 
Fitting  for  the  Sabbath  calm, 

Someone's  eyes  were  fixed  on  me. 

Without  turning,  I  could  see 
Feathers  on  a  jaunty  hat, 
Curls  escaping  under  that: 

On  her  cheek  a  rosy  spot — 

I  confess  my  thoughts  were  not 
Fitting  for  the  Sabbath  calm, 
Through  the  reading  of  the  psalm. 

Through  the  singing  of  the  hymn 
(There  were  two 
In  the  pew!) 
Words  got  mixed  and  notes  grew  dim: 

So  I  slily  stole  a  look; 

Someone  stood  without  a  book. 
Well,  I  offered  half  of  mine 
Pointing  dumbly  to  the  line 

They  were  at.      This  one, — O  my! 

"Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly." 
Words  got  mixed  and  notes  grew  dim 
Through  the  singing  of  the  hymn. 

Through  a  noon  of  golden  smiles 
Rang  "Amen" 
Clearly.      Then 
Down  the  cheeriest  of  aisles, 
Hiding  tell-tale  eyes  we  went 
Side  by  side,  with  heads  low-bent. 


Not  a  body  worshipped  there 
Who  could  introduce  us.      Where 

Is  the  charm  of  etiquette? 

Ah!  my  heart  is  wandr'ing  yet, 
Down  the  cheeriest  of  aisles 
Through  a  noon  of  golden  smiles. 

AN  AGGRAVATED  CASE 
Of  the  iridescent  ribbon 

In  her  newest  collarette, 
I  can  mention  ev'ry  hue: 
There's  a  dozen  yellow  poppies 

And  a  towering  aigrette, 

Brightly  blue, 
On  her  most  becoming  bonnet; 

And  she  wears  a  hunter's  green, 
Natty,  jaunty,  velvet  jacket 

O'er  a  skirt  of  raven  sheen. 
But  though  I  know  ev'ry  duller 

Tint  that  makes  her  outward  guise, 
I  can't  tell  you  what's  the  color 
Of  her  eyes. 

With  her  taste  in  books  and  music 

My  acquaintance  is  not  slight; 
Just  what  flowers  to  bestow, 
And  of  which  swell  shop's  confections 

She'll  pronounce  the  flavors  right — 

These  I  know. 
In  despite  of  fad  and  foible 

How  unstintedly  endued 
May  a  gentle  woman's  mind  be 

She's  shown  me.      Her  attitude, 
I  can  give  you  most  minutely 

To  each  phase  of  Science,  Art, 
But  know  nothing,   absolutely, 
Of  her  heart. 


When  I  say  I  cannot  tell  you 

What's  the  color  of  her  eyes, 
It  is  in  no  sense  a  'bluff.' 
They  have  never,  to  my  knowledge, 

Doffed  their  merry,  dancing  guise 

Long  enough 
For  the  point  to  be  decided — 

At  long  range,  at  least!      Her  heart 
I  suspect  has  long  since  fallen 

To  some  other  fellow's  part. 
But  such  smiles  she  makes  a  lure  of, 

And  my  own  poor  heart  thereat 
Acts  up  so  I  can't  be  sure  of 
Even  that! 

THE  BALLAD  OF  AN  ULTRA  GIRL 

Hortense  goes  always  to  extremes 

Whatever  it's  about; 
One  day  has  philanthropic  schemes 

No  Hirsch  could  carry  out, 
And  drains  her  pocket  to  relieve 

A  very  doubtful  need, 
While  on  the  next  she  may  not  grieve 

To  see  a  fond  heart  bleed. 

Last  year  she  went  in  for  a  course 

Of  calisthenics;  got 
A  swell  trapeze,  a  wheel,  a  horse, 

And  Heaven  knows  what  not. 
But  this  year  in  her  dressing-gown 

Spends  days,  nor  'trains'  at  all! — 
Why,  half  the  time  she  won't  come  down 

To  see  me  when  I  call! 


She  finds  a  tale  of  times  remote 

Whose  denouement  is  right, 
And  must  read  all  its  author  wrote 

Before  another  night. 
But  when  I  take  her  a  new  book 

Whose  praise  all  critics  speak, 
She'll  not  deign  it  a  single  look 

Because  "her    eyes    are  weak"! 

However,  it  is  in  her  dress 

Hortense  most  plainly  shows 
The  quite  distinguished  ultraness 

That  makes  her  friends  and  foes. 
Whatever  modes  in  favor  come 

Hers  leave  them  in  the  shade, 
For  everything  she  wears  is  from 

"Exclusive  patterns"  made. 

With  all  her  whimsies  I  adore 

The  maid  of  whom  I  sing, 
But  cannot  feel  that  any  store 

Of  bliss  her  love  would  bring. 
For  this  thought  any,  every  while 

Would  mar  the  married  state: 
If  loving  should  go  out  of  style 

How  fiercely  she  could  hate! 


SONNETS 


PATIENCE 

When  one  is  loved  and  loves,  and  all's  confessed 

With  cheek  to  cheek,  and  throbbing  heart  to  heart, 

That  sweet,  sad-eyed  divinity  thou  art 
Which  brings  us  Peace  for  regent  of  the  breast, 
While  friends  and  kin  mistakenly  protest 

Against  our  choosing  'til  the  salt  tears  start: 

Which  teaches  us  to  play  a  sunny  part 
And  smile  at  grief  when  grief  is  bitterest. 

Seen  through  thy  glass  each  dun  cloud  parts  in  twain 
And  shews  the  blue  sky  of  a  future  year: 

Content  we  have  of  thee  when  tearful  eyes 
Look  sad  farewells:  endurance  for  each  pain. 

Love    quick  would  languish,  shouldst  thou  disappear- 
Art  thou  not  Love  itself  in  other  guise  ? 

INDIFFERENCE 

Dear,  I  can  bear  your  anger  patiently 

And  all  the  little  pangs  that  it  begets: 

There  lurks  no  meaning  in  your  thoughtless  threats, 
They  wound  but  slightly,  though  undue  they  be. 
I  can  but  wait  your  sunny  self  to  see 

Returned,  and  mourn  meanwhile  when  care  besets 

You  do  not  find  for  all  your  woes  and  frets 
A  better  exorcist  in  love  and  me. 

But,  dear,  I  cannot  bear  your  coldness,  no! 
The  cruel  line  of  silent,  tight-closed  lips, 

And  unlit  eyes,  as  fixed  as  a  stone, 
How  these  do  torture  me  none,  none  can  show. 
I  drift  unsuccored  of  all  passing  ships 
Upon  a  bitter  sea,  unloved,  alone. 


"5 


INGRATITUDE 

I  did  but  very  little,  little  gave 

Where  much  was  due.      But  all  I  could  I  did 
And  all  I  had  I  gave,  and — God  forbid ! — 

Grudged  neither.      Was  it  then  too  much  to  crave 

A  little  gratitude?     To  work,    to  save, 
When  save  I  can,  for  her;  to  rid 
Her  sky  of  clouds — this  is  my  lot  till  hid 

Is  one  of  us  beneath  a  green-thatched  grave. 

And  Oh!  the  heartache  and  the  bitter  tears 
When,  after  smiling  on  me  one  day  thro', 

She  killed  the  sweet  Contentment  that  should  live, 
To  taunt  me  with  the  sloth  of  earlier  years; 
To  tax  me  with  the  things  I  cannot  do; 
To  covet  still  the  things  I  cannot  give. 

DIANA'S  BATHS 

(Intervale,   New   Hampshire} 

Where  Kearsarge  tow' rs,  and  gray  Moat  Mountain  makes 
Through  seas  of  mist  toward  Heaven's  changeless  blue, 
A  crystal  torrent  born  of  show'r  and  dew 

Comes  tumbling  through  the  thick  of  birchen  brakes 

To  fill  the  silvern  pools  where  Dian  takes 

Her  midnight  plunge,  unseen  of  men's  wide  view, — 
As  chaste,  as  wanton  still,  as  when  she  drew 

Her  bow  in  Latmos  woods,  by  Ida's  lakes! 

In  the  dim  light  of  stars,  when  no  moon  beams, 
Here,  who  has  aught  of  poet's  sight  may  see, 

Stretched  on  the  torrent  bank,  seamed,  glacier- worn, 
Half  waking  and  half  lost  in  pensive  dreams; 
Grown  tristful  of  his  mistress'  truantry, 

Th»i  ghr^de  of  yoaa^  Sndymion,  pale  *nd  lorn. 


116 


SEA  DOWNS 

Upon  Cape  Ann's  red-bouldered,  rugged  shore, 
The  swift,  blue  billow  pitches  its  high  sprays 
Across  wide  slopes  of  furze  and  fragrant  bays 

Whose  greyish-berried  branches,  autumn-hoar, 

Nod  wraithishly  beside  the  marshalled  corps 

Of  late  wild-blossoms.      Here  the  shortened  days 
Wear  lovelier  garments  on  their  seaward  ways 

Than  in  the  deep  of  sweet-mouthed  spring  they  wore. 

Though  clover  pinks  be  pale  and  asters  wan, 
The  lamps  of  autumn  goldenly  are  lit 

Along  the  hill  and  in  salt  marshes  lush, — 
That  man  the  gods  have  surely  smiled  upon 
Whose  canvas  does  but  poorly  counterfeit 
This  simpler  artistry  of  Nature's  brush. 

THE  ROAD  TO  "PARADISE"  * 

Barred  from  the  highway's  dust  that  seaward  winds, 
A  stretch  of  sunlit  sward,  fringed  either  side 
With  tall,  slim  willows,  looking  over  wide 

And  od'rous  moors.      To  south 'ard  Ocean  grinds 

Along  bare,  glist'ring  reefs;    but  no  surf  blinds 
Upon  this  primrose  path,  whatever  tide, 
And  who  comes  hither  with  his  brush  to  bide, 

An  inspiration  summer-long  he  finds. 

The  boom  of  hurtling  waves,  the  whistling  buoy, 
Scarce  break  the  quiet  of  this  pleasant  pass: 
At  left  the  old  Patch-orchard  trees  entice 
The  traveler  their  shadows  to  enjoy. 

Marsh-cosmos,  saffron-tipped,  gleams  in  the  grass, - 
Here  stretches  the  rope-gate  of  "Paradise." 


*"Paradise"  is  the  popular  name  of  Mrs.   Phelps- Ward's  summer  home 
at  East  Gloucester,  Mass. 

117 


IN  AUTUMN  LANES 

Mark  you  these  paths  how  dingy  they  have  grown 
Within  a  few  short  weeks.      A  pall-wise  blight 
Of  dust  lies  thick  on  leaf  and  limb.      The  light 

Of  yellow  mullein-torches  flares  alone, 

Though  dim  and  dimmer  still,  where  we  have  known 
A  trillion  tapers  summer-trimmed  and  bright. 
One  lated  daisy  shews  its  gold  and  white 

Deep  in  the  grass,  by  some  quick  foot  o'erthrown. 

The  thinning  troops  of  asters  wan  reviewed; 

Reached,  the  high-road,  the  lane's  worse  counterpart, 

We  conscious  grow  unconscious  sighs  between 
That  strangely  fill  the  wider  solitude, 

Of  longing,  keen,  impatient,  in  the  heart, 
For  the  return  of  Spring's  own  tender  green. 

WHEN  WINTER  WIDOWS  ALL  THE  NORTH 

When  winter  widows  all  the  North  and  folds 
Her  purple  woods,  her  yellow  fields,  her  plains, 
In  pallish  motley;  when  from  pleasant  lanes 

The  green  he  tears,  and  what  of  brightness  holds 

The  autumn  garden  still — pale  marigolds, 

Late  dahlias, — these,  he  drowns  in  bitter  rains; 
When  black  storms  drag  their  weight  of  icy  chains 

Across  the  piteous  whiteness  of  her  wolds; 

When  high  winds  drive  us  from  the  window-seat, 
Whilst  chimney-voices  only  moan  and  hiss — 

Still,  blossom-crowned,  fruit-laden,  and  replete 
With  ev'ry  gentle  thing  that  makes  for  bliss, 

Her  marvellous  sweet  mouth,  and  warm  as  sweet, 
Uplifts  the  smiling  South  for  us  to  kiss. 


118 


PALMISTRY 

She  takes  my  hand  with  the  soft  diffidence 
That  seems  a  part  of  girlhood  and  proclaims 
The  timorous  amateur;  then  glibly  names 

Each  line  thereon,  but  holds  me  in  suspense 

A  sweet  long  while  before  she  can  commence 
The  oracle's  deliv'ry.      Like  twin  flames 
Her  cheeks  burn  up  when  finally  she  frames 

The  promise  of  long  life  and  affluence. 

If  through  some  Gipsy  strain  she  reckons  dear 
Her  reputation  as  a  prophetess, 

Then  by  her  pleasant  art  may  she  divine 
That  it  is  thrice  secured  if  she  will  clear 
My  way  to  all  felicity  with  "Yes" 
In  answer  to  a  small  request  of  mine. 

LA  COUP  D'ESSAI 

This  is  the  picture:      Study  of  a  shore 

Of  sands  impossible,  and  breakers  green 

With  edge  of  such  foam-lace  as  ne'er  was  seen. 
(A  silken  flounce  some  stage  Provencal  wore 
It  minds  me  of!)      Goliath  sea-gulls  soar 

Above  a  disc  which  is  too  pale  I  ween 

For  Dian's  pallid  self,  yet  sheds  a  sheen 
Which  brighter  is  than  eye  has  'held  before. 

A  sail  I  note,  too  near  the  rocks  by  half; 
As  white  as  it,  the  hand  rests  light  as  dew 

Upon  my  own,  which  wrought  this  "gem  of  Art." 
She  waits  for  me  to  speak — I  want  to  laugh — 
Then  see  the  sky  is  of  her  sweet  eyes'  blue, 
And  she  for  her  salon  may  have  my  heart! 


119 


SPRING 

{After  Meleager — some  1966 years.) 

At  last  the  snow  fast  by  the  wall, 

Where  longest  it  inspired  my  pen, 
Has  sloped,  and  daffodillies  tall 

Nod  like  shock-headed  little  men 

Upon  the  bank  above  my  den. 
The  street-piano  makes  its  call 
Each  morning,  and  to  hut  and  hall 

That  Tired  Feeling's  come  again. 

But  now  the  efficacy's  spent 
Of  tonics,  nor  will  treacle  blent 

Wisely  with  brimstone  oust  the  de'il. 
He  yields  to  this,  and  this  alone- 
(A  case  in  point  cgad's  my  own!) 

The  sorcery  that's  in  a  wheel. 

THE  SOP  TO  CERBERUS 

Dog  of  full  fifty  mouths  have  you  not  grown 

In  all  the  years  since  Orpheus  twanged  his  lyre 
Of  dulcet  strings  and  strains,  t'appease  your  ire, 

A  set  of  teeth  that's  equal  to  a  bone? 

On  festal  days  has  Pluto  never  thrown 
A  luscious  chop  to  you,  at  his  own  fire 
Done  to  the  proper  turn,  in  way  of  hire? 

Or  does  your  master  live  by  bread  alone? 

Let  me  be  trebly  sworn;  /have  been  flung 
To  you  too  often  by  the  awful  horde 

Of  scribbling  hacks.      I  cannot  stand  the  laughter 
Of  these  daft  mortals,  though  your  ev'ry  tongue 
Joined  in  one  howl  of  hunger.  For  your  board 
You  may  go  to  the  Devil,  Cer,  hereafter. 


TO  CONSTANCE  IN  A  PICTURE  HAT 

What  new  conceit  is  this  of  sombre  hue 

That  hides  the  precious  sunlight  of  your  hair? 
The  plumes  funereal  have  no  place  there 

Among  your  dearest  ringlets,  in  full  view 

Of  those  whose  ways  with  brightness  you  endue 

Best,  most,  when  least  adorned.      Dear,  have  a  care 
Lest  they  come  soon  to  think  the  darkness  fair 

Perceiving  how  less  dark  it  is  o'er  you. 

You  'sit'  today?  Ah!  Well,  I  can  believe 
Your  beauty  dazzles  unaccustomed  eyes — 

But  sunshine  offered,  who  takes  clouds  in  part? 
You  say  you  need  both  light  and  shade  to  weave 
The  picture's  cloth?   Yourself  the  light  supplies, 
Take  all  the  shadow  from  my  anxious  heart. 

TO  CONSTANCE  ON  ALL-HALLOW  EVE 

You  scout  the  nonsense  of  your  weaker  kin 
Wrho  in  the  Future's  book  are  fain  to  peer, 
And  properly,  no  doubt,  though  'tis  not  clear 

Indulging  such  chimeras  is  a  sin! 

Tradition's  ever  seemed  a  sturdy  twin 

To  that  Romance  which  you  declare  so  dear, 
And  all  its  fairy  folk  for  many  a  year 

Have  had  a  bright,  warm  place  my  heart  within. 

You  scorn  the  supernatural.      /  refresh 
My  thirsty  soul  with  myth  and  mystery. 
To  dusty  fact  and  shabby  verity 

Ah!  Constance  here's  no  convert  to  enmesh. 
Shall  I  recant,  think  you,  whilst  I  still  see 

A  witch  before  me  in  the  very  flesh? 


LA  CHRYSANTHEME 

Eiane,  she  carried  to  the  play  last  night 
A  bunch  of  autumn-roses  which  I  claimed 
Held  ev'ry  color  tongue  or  pen  had  named. 

One's  petals  as  soft,  summer  clouds  were  white: 

One  golden  as  the  goddess'   "bow  of  might"; 

And  'twixt  these  twain  of  heart' s-blood  hue  one  flamed 
Whose  gaudery  a  purple  cluster  shamed 

A-tint  from  Tyrian-deep  to  lilac  light. 

And  still  I  found  to-day  I  had  misdeemed 
For  at  the  meet  she  wore  as  amulet 

A  dozen  buds  whose  hue  I  could  not  quote. 

Diane,  she  triumphed  in  my  plight,  it  seemed, 

Till,  when  on  homeward  roads  she  mocked  "  Not  yet?' ' 
"  Fox-red  "  quoth  I,  "  the  shade  ofreynard's  coat  !  " 

THE  DYSPEPTIC  TO  HIS  FAMILIAR 

O  Dire!   O  Dread!  that  holds  me  still  in  thrall 
Through  days  that  were  beatic  otherwise, 
Through  nights  felicitous  but  for  the  sighs 

Which  mark  the  painful  minutes  as  they  fall; 

O  Merciless!   O  Mad!   I've  yielded  all— 

My  hope,  my  rarebits,  pastry,  peace  and  pies ! — 
But  now,  before  my  broken  spirit  flies, 

Grant  me  a  boon,  a  boon  exceeding  small. 

O  Prince  Inquisitor!  it  is  but  this: 

Though  in  an  hour  again  vour  torments  rage, 

Merely  a  respite  brief,  an  armistice 

In  which  to  eat,  with  no  pang  to  assuage, 
Suggestive  of  my  awful  vassalage, 

One  more  Thanksgiving  dinner  steeped  in  bliss. 


TO  A  WISHBONE 

O  relic  of  our  Christmas  cheer! 

When  you  are  shortly  called  to  play 

The  role  of  arbiter,  I  pray 
Let  it  irrefutably  clear 
From  your  dismemberment  appear 

That  Grace  shall  have  whate'er  she  may 

In  her  own  artless,  heartless  way 
Decide  pre-eminently  dear. 

This  is  not  magnanimity, 

But  simply  that  I  think  if  you 

Grant  her  her  wish  she  may,  so  blest, 
Elated  by  your  augury, 

At  last,  as  only  she  can  do, 

Grant  mine,  a  thousand  times  expressed. 


123 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  SONNET  IN  DIALOGUE 

MADGE  (brightly) 
Good  morning!      Did  you  watch  the  Old  Year  out? 

TOM  (testily) 
Good  nothing!      No!      I  watched  the  New  Year  in. 

MADGE  (in  surprise) 
Why,  what's  wrong,  Tom?      You're  uglier  than  sin! 

TOM  (meaningly^ 
I'm  not  the  only  one  knows  how  to  pout! 

MADGE  (smiling) 
That  few  excel  you  at  it's  clear! 

TOM  (insinuatingly") 

No  doubt! 
I  had  a  teacher — (fiercely)      Madge  your  humor's  thin. 

MADGE  (conciliatorily) 
I  grant  it  and  am  ready  to  begin 
The  day  afresh — 

TOM  (sotto  voce) 
Now  for  a  wordy  bout ! — 
MADGE  (not  heeding) 
By  wishing  you  a  year  of  happiness. 

TOM  (dejectedly) 

Your  wish  is  vain.      Last  night  you  rang  the  knell 
Of  all  my  hopes. 

MADGE  (repentantly — after  a  pause) 
I'll  kiss    you    now — (in  perturbation  as    Tom 
gets  up) 

Not  hard! 

Just  as  an  earnest,  neither  more  nor  less, 
Of  my — (hesitates^) 

TOM  (eagerly) 
Yes,  yes,  an  earnest  of  your — Well? 

MADGE  (gravely) 
Sincerity  and  sisterly  regard. 


124 


IN  GALLIC  BONDS 


QUATRAINS 
UNRECOGNIZED 

To  him  who  years  in  vain  has  plied 

His  brush,  the  saddest  words  of  pen  or  tongue 
Are  not  "Alas!  it  might  have  been"; 

But  these:  "Unwept,  unhonored  and  unhung". 

WOLF!     WOLF! 

My  wife  smelled  fire  for  twenty  years 

Each  night  when  she  awoke; 
But  when  at  last  we  had  one,  did 

Not  even  smell  the  smoke. 

A  MODERN  INSTANCE 

Kiissner,  he  vowed,  should  do  her  miniature 
Ere  of  the  honeymoon  was  spent  one  half; 

But  brought  home  to  her,  when  a  year  had  passed, 
A  club-rate  ticket  for  a  photograph. 

A   MARITAL  NECESSITY 

The  man  who  finds  his  married  life 
From  th'  old  too  sudden  a  transition, 

Should  have,  without  a  doubt,  a  wife 
Like  Cassar's, — quite  above  suspicion. 

ON  A  POETASTER 

"I'm  a  poet  of  wonderful  moods!"  he  declared, 

But  after  an  hundred  offences 
His  Public  retorted:  "You're  rather,  poor  wight, 

A  poet  of  wonderful  tenses!" 


AN  OPTIMISTIC  TAILOR 

Brown  makes  his  work  a  shear  delight, 
For,  like  the  Spanish  Don's, 

His  peace  of  mind  thrives  well  on  cuts, 
And  "all  his  geese  are  swans!" 


For  his  seven  prudent  virgins  he  employed  a  single  model 

But,  having  finished  those, 

When  he  tried  his  best  to  press  her  into  service  for  the 
others 

She  refused  point-blank  to  pose. 

AND  THERE  ARE  OTHERS 

His  wife  counts  this  among  her  direst  woes: 
That  Jenkins  can't,  or  wont  turn  out  his  toes. 
But  what,  in  truth,  embittereth  her  cup, 
Is  the  hard  fact  that  he'll  not  turn  them  up! 

THE  POWER  OF  SLANG 

The  power  transmutative  of  slang 

With  wonder  strikes  me  dumb; 
The  man  once  labelled  a  'sardine' 

A  'lobster'  has  become  ! 

THE  NATION'S  BIRTHDAY— AND  MABEL'S 

Though  cannons  boom,  and  east,  west,  south  and  north 

"Old  Glory"  at  a  patriot  touch  unfurls, 
With  what  heart  can  I  celebrate  my  Fourth, 

Seeing  the  Other  Three  are  also  girls? 


128 


TRIOLETS 
WINTER  VIOLETS 

Here  are  violets,  dear, 

And  a  Honiton  collar. 
For  your  natal-day  cheer, 
Here  are  violets  dear, 
Dearest  flow'rs  of  the  year. 

(At  just  twelve  for  the  dollar!) 
Here  are  violets,  dear, 

And  a  Honiton  collar. 

HOPE  SPRINGS  ETERNAL 

Phoebe  is  only  sixteen 

So  there  is  hope  for  me  yet, 
Though  to-day's  cold  her  demean. 
Phoebe  is  only  sixteen: 
When  twenty  years  she  has  seen 

She'll  be  less  of  the  coquette. 
Phoebe  is  only  sixteen 

So  there  is  hope  for  me  yet. 


129 


CONVERTS 

I 
I  quite  abhorred  the  minuet 

Till,  last  night,  I  saw  her  begin  it. 
A  walk  to  dirge-like  music  set — 
I  quite  abhorred  the  minuet; 
But  now  I  never  shall  forget 

The  matchless  Grace  that  I  saw  in  it. 
I  quite  abhorred  the  minuet 

Till,  last  night,  I  saw  her  begin  it. 

II 

With  heavy  heart  I  watched  them   dance 

Till  Amy  tempted  me  to  try  it. 
These  loons  I  could  not  countenance, 
With  heavy  heart  I  watched  them  dance, 
It  grew  light  as  her  feet,  her  glance, 

When  I  joined  them — I  can't  deny  it. 
With  heavy  heart  I  watched  them  dance 
Till  Amy  tempted  me  to  try  it. 


130 


RONDELS 

ON  HER  KITCHEN  APRON 

This  is  the  panoply  in  which  she  takes 

The  household's   strongest   points  with   toothsome  hail. 
The  daybreak  charge  is  in  alluring  cakes, 

At  night,  the  lead  of  biscuits  turns  us  pale. 

A  host  that  in  the  still  hours  shall  assail 

At  noon  lurks  'neath  a  pie's  deceptive  flakes. 
This  is  the  panoply  in  which  she  takes 

The   household's    strongest    points  with    toothsome   hail. 

To  mark  her  sweet  importance  when  she  bakes, 

To  see  her  in  this  culinary  veil, 

Is  to  forget  Dyspepsia's  awful  flail, 
The  night  attacks,  the  mid-day  pangs  and  aches. 
This  is  the  panoply  in  which  she  takes ! 

WHEN    WOUND    A    FORESTER  SO    BLITHE 
A  HORN 

When  wound  a  forester  so  blithe  a  horn 

As  did  my  fair  beside  the  wood  to-day? 
Not  bugle  echoing  along  the  morn, 

That  bears  the  tall,  swart  huntsman's  breath  away, 

Nor  reeden  pipe  of  elves  in  midnight  play 
Could  thrill  me  so,  let  me  be  trebly  sworn. 
When  wound  a  forester  so  blithe  a  horn 

As  did  my  fair  beside  the  wood  to-day? 

If  her  clear  trumpet  no  silk  cords  adorn, 

The  perished  harps  of  eld,  while  sweet  were    they, 

Shed  no  such  sweets !  With  waiting  of  me  worn, 

Through  her  dear  hands  she  blew  my  name.     Ah !  say 

When  wound  a  forester  so  blithe  a  horn 
As  did  my  fair  beside  the  wood  to-day? 


RONDEAUS 
REFLECTIONS 

Adele's  cheval  dares  more  than  I! 

She  frowns;  a  frown  is  her  reply: 
She  laughs  (the  ripple  of  a  brook)  — 
The  glass  returns  her  happy  look, 

Or  gives  back  mutely  sigh  for  sigh. 

But  my  response  to  glances  wry 
Must  be  a  smile;  a  pitying  eye 

Must  still  such  sobs  as  erstwhile  shook 
Adele's  cheval. 

The  mirror  will  not  falsify 

E'en  mildly.      I  am  forced  to — why! 

My  pretty  fibs  would  fill  a  book. 

Scorned  still,  indeed  its  cosy  nook 
I  envy  and  its  favor  high, 
Adele's  cheval. 

MY  CHIFFONIER 

My  chiffonier,  so  dear  to  me 
In  bachelor  days,  won  Dorothy: 

"This  cubby-hole  will  take  my  hat, 
The  small  drawer  at  the  top —  why  that 
Is  just  the  place  for  gloves!"  said  she. 

"You  do  not  mind?  I  may?  Merci! 
Down  here  I'll  keep  my  lingerie; 

Veils  here — "  and  so  she  schemed  it  at 
My  chiffonier. 

At  first  I  owned  a  corner  wee 
For  'rings  and  things',  but  latterly 

My  trunk's  my  wardrobe's  habitat. 

It  holds  not  even  a  cravat 
Yet  it  is  still  (by  courtesy) 
My  chiffonier. 


THE  HIGH  COIFFURE 

(A  short  man  loquitur} 
The  high  coiffure,  I  read  to-day, 
Is  coming  in,  perhaps  to  stay; 

And  think  I  see  on  Bertha's  brow 

A  golden  coronet,  and  how 
Kate's  curls  will  look  'done'  the  new  way. 

To  little  chits,  like  Grace  and  May, 
Whose  height  will  grow  with  such  display, 
'Twill  be  a  boon,  I  must  allow, 
The  high  coiffure. 

As  for  the  tall  and  distingue, 

What  need  of  tressy  crowns  have  they? 

There's  Blanche,  for  instance,  who  I  vow 

Towers  quite  a  head  above  me  now!  — 
Ah !  pity  me  should  she  essay 
The  high  coiffure. 

TO  SKATE  WITH  HERMIA 

To  skate  with  Hermia  when  stars  frost-bright 

Gem  all  the  canopy  of  winter's  night, 
And  nearer  earth,  as  lovely  as  the  skies, 
Beam  soft  on  me  still  other  stars — her  eyes! — 

This  is  the  sum  of  boreal  delight ! 

Though  runners  gleam  where  roads  stretch  hard  and  white, 
And  dreamy  measures  to  the  dance  invite, 

My  choice  shall  ever  be — a  fond  and  wise — 
To  skate — with  her. 

A  new  Lysander,  like  the  old,  to  flight 
I  tempt  my  Hermia,  and,  through  some  rite 
Of  fairyland,  find  where  the  moonlight  lies 
A  rosebud  blowing  though  the  snow-bird  flies. 
Who  would  not  leave  all  other  joys  (who  might!} 
To  skate  with  her? 


133 


AN  EXPLANATION 

He  passed  the  hat— and  willingly,  although 
He  thoroughly  abhors  an  outward  show 
Of  charity,  believing  that  no  good 
Results  from  public  giving — always  would 
Prefer  his  alms  in  private  to  bestow. 

On  this  occasion,  nathless,  with  a  slow 
And  measured  step,  expectance  bringing  low 
And  disappointment  to  the  neighborhood, 
He  passed  the  hat. 

'Tis  strange  with  his  convictions  he  should  go 

Out  of  his  way  to  do  it,  but  we  grow 

At  once  in  years  and  wisdom.      Signs  that  cculd 
Not  be  by  a  worse  dolt  misunderstood 

Reminded  him  'twas  April  first,  and  so 
He  passed  the  hat. 

TO  BERNICE  IN  LENT 
Lenten  maid,  downcast,   demure, 
Where  are  the  smiles  that  were  lure 

O'  those  by  their  sweetness  that  swear  ? 

Is  it  writ  you  must  forbear 
Smiling  ?  your  eyes'  light  obscure  ? 

A  nun  it  has  turned  you,  and  your 
House  to  a  cloister,  and,  sure, 
All  my  old  happiness  there, 
Lent  unmade! 

Come  now,  your  posing  is  poor! 
Confess  it,  your  thoughts  are  en  tour, — 

While  your  lips  move  through  a  pray'r — - 

To  a  gay  some  otherwhere! 
Your  moods!      This  one's  worst  to  endure, 
Lenten-made. 


ON  MYRA'S  HEART 
This  House  To  Let  ! — the  agency 
Is  Cupid's,  and  he  holds  the  key; 
The  tenant  must  be  young  and  hale, 
Honest,  of  course,  and  without  fail 
One  he  can  recommend  to  me. 

Nav,  Croesus,  take  your  gold  and  flee 
Back  to  your  brokers  instantly, 

You're  misinformed,  it's  not  For  Sale/ 
This  House  To  Let! 

If  I  can  find  the  proper  he 
A  life-long  lease  I'll  let  it  be. 

Construction  modern,  nothing  frail; 

In  good  repair — •  a  mere  detail — 
And  warm —  that  I  will  guarantee ! 
This  House  To  Let! 

WHAT  HARRIE  SAID 

What  Harrie  said  I  could  not  guess — 

I,  at  the  furthermost  recess 

Of  the  long  drawing-room,  between 
The  white  of  curtains  and  the  green 

Of  palms, — a  screen  of  loveliness. 

No  quidnunc  I,  and  yet,  no  less 
I  longed  to  know,  I  must  confess, 
Since  all  unwitting  on  the  scene, 
What  Harrie  said. 

Unheeding  physical  distress 

I  crouched  till  Mabel's  whispered  "yes" 
Stole  through  the  afternoon  serene, 
And  then  how  much  could  I  misween, 

When  she  returned  his  warm  caress, 
What  Harrie  said? 


WHEN  THE  KISS  HAD  BEEN  TAKEN 

That  I  tried  to  shun  the  snare 
You'll  admit  if  you  are  fair. 

Without  lifting  eyes  or  head 

All  the  afternoon  I've  read 
Here, — you  pouted  over  there. 

I  tried  every  plan,  I  swear — 
When  I  felt  that  I  could  dare; 
Yours,  of  counting  ten,  instead, 
That  I  tried,  too! 

But  when  you  leaned  o'er  my  chair 
I  could  not  resist  that  pair 

Of  sweet  lips  although  thev  plead. 

And  now  that  your  worst  is  said, 
I  am  sorry,  I  declare, 
That  I  tried  to. 

THE  TEA  SHE  BREWS 

The  tea  she  brews  is  awful  drink: 
(Imported  from  Ceylon,  I  think, 

Or  other  Oriental  shore!) 

I  never  had  the  like  before, 
Unpalatable,  quite,  as  ink. 

At  any  rate  I  do  not  shrink 
From  quaffing.      Cup  on  cup  I  sink, — 
I  do  so  love  to  see  her  pour 
The  tea  she  brews. 

Or  stoup  or  glass  may  clash  and  clink 
With  nectars  brimmed  that  flash  and  twink— 
Le,  wine  shall  take  me  nevermore 
While  she  bes\veets  with  bounteous  store 
Of  smiles  that  part  her  lips'  deep  pink, 
The  tea  she  brews. 


136 


OF  A  FANCY  SKATER 

What  a  figure  he  cut!  ( 'Twas  an  "8"  so  he  said!) 
Though  the  glittering  pond's  was  a  generous  bed, 
He  found  it  well-filled  and  he  could  not  evade 
The  facts  that  his  trousers  had  suffered  a   shade 
And  his  coat  was  in  need  of  a  needle  and  thread. 

To  'do'  a  spread-eagle  he  shortly  essayed, 
Encouraged  thereto  by  the  smile  of  a  maid, 

But  alas!  and  alack!  'twas  himself  that  he  spread — 
What  a  figure  he  cut! 

We  teheed  and  we  'rahed  and  he  called  us  ill-bred, 

Yet  anon,  his  ambition  not  utterly  dead, 

Set  out  with  more  skill  than  he  yet  had  displayed 
To  do  the  back  roll  upon  one  shining  blade, 

And  (my  kodak  at  home!)  promptly  stood  on  his  head- 
What  a  figure  he  cut! 

HAS  LENT  A  CHARM 

Has  Lent  a  charm  that  men  and  maids  should  flee 
The  worldly  ways  that  ring  again  with  glee 

And  go  (pro  tern)  by  quiet  paths  instead? 

The  cowl  but  ill-befits  Karl's  curly  head, 
And  Ursula,  a  sorry  nun  is  she  ! 

The  yearly  thirst  for  goodness  is  to  me 
A  baffling,  dark,  perennial  mystery 

Which  often  deeper  grows  when  I  have  said, 
Has  Lent  a  charm? 

To  Kate,  at  least,  whose  cruel  coquetry 
Has  given  place  to  kindness  frank  and  free, 

And  who  pours  balm  upon  the  wounds  that  bled 
First  by  her  lingual  sword-thrusts  deep  and  dread, 
The  penitential  season  verily, 
Has  lent  a  charm. 


AS  GRACE  UNPACKED 

As  Grace  unpacked  a  fine  defence 

She  put  up  for  her  negligence — 

Not  writing — ' '•  thought  I  wonl.ltf  t  carfT 
But  from  mv  seat, — the  lo\vest   stair — 

I  vowed  I  did,  with  vehemence. 

A  pause.      With  wistful  eloquence: 
tfP m  glad  I'm  home  /"  she  said,  and  tlvn 
Our  talk  took  flights  three  cannot  share, 
As  Grace  unpacked. 

Say,  could  I  meet  sweet  penitence 
With  hints  of  cold  indifference? 

Not  I !      I  straightway  shook  Despair 

To  live  again,  for  everywhere 
Rose  hues  stole  into  evidence 
As  Grace  unpacked. 

WHAT  COULD  SHE  DO 

If  I  kissed  you  would  you  be  in- 
Dignant  with  me — make  resistance? 

Flush  and  blush  and  order  me  in 
Tragic  tones  to  'keep  my  distance'? 

Break  your  pretty  voice  in  two 
Calling  someone  to  assist  you — 

Tell  me,  sweet,  what  would  you  do 
If  I  kissed  you  ? 

If  you  kissed  me  I  might  scold  you 

Under  certain  circumstances; 
And  at  more  than  arms-length  hold  you 

To  discourage  your  advances. 
But  if  none  were  near  but  you — 

As  at  this  minute — to  assist  me, 
Tell  me,  please,  what  could  I   do 
If  you  kissed  me? 


A  DISSEMBLER 

"To  the  letter  that  you  sent 

I  have  not  a  word  to  say. 
All  your  keep-sakes,  tear-besprent, 

I  return  this  very  day. 
I've  been  true  and  you  protest,  dear, 

That  I  might  have  loved  von  better; 
But  I  follow  your  behest,  dear, 
To  the  letter." 

(To  the  letter.)      "You  have  freed 
Me  from  bonds  that  'gan  to  chafe 

And  a  harmless  sort  decreed 

Larks  that  lately  seemed  unsafe. 

Ev'ry  time  that  you  are  read  you'll 
Loose  another  galsome  fetter, 

And  I'll  follow  the  old  schedule 
To  the  letter." 

THE  MAIDENS  TO  ST.  VALENTINE 
Hail!  Saint  Valentine,  hail  to  you! 

'Spite  of  your  ill-natured  flings. 
Modesty  h:id  tacked  a  veil  to  you 

But  for  your  beautiful  wings. 
Let  those  who  choose  to,  make  light  or  you, 

We  never  cared  for  a  pale  saint; 
Love  take  new  life  at  first  sight  of  you, 
Hale  saint ! 

Hail!  Saint  Valentine,  hail  to  you! 

Eke  to  the  gauds  you  bestow — 
Saying  sweet  things  must  grow  stale  to  you! 

Why  you  enravish  us  so 
Never  has  been  very  clear  to  us. 

Must  be  because  you're  a  male  saint 
That  you're  surpassingly  dear  to  us. 
Hail  Saint! 


139 


TWO  RONDEAUS 

Ante-Nuptial 

If  you  love  me  I'm  content, 

Lite  with  you  is  worth  the  living: 

Yours  my  heart;  I'll  ne'er  repent, 
Ne'er,  I'm  sure,  regret  the  giving. 

Little  reck  I  when  you're  near, 

What's  beneath,  around,  above  me — 

What  is  sorrow,  care,  or  fear, 
If  you  love  me  ? 

Post-Nuptial 

If  you  love  me  you  would  not 

See  me  look  so  worn  and  threadbare: 

Seems  you  wouldn't  care  a  jot 

If  I  went  with  feet  and  head  bare! 

Take  your  old  arm  from  my  neck, 
Kisses  neither  boot  nor  glove  me! 

Write  me  out  a  decent  check 
If  you  love  me. 


140 


AS  THE  WORLD  GOES 
I 

When  she  married,  often  she 

Forcefully   asseverated, 
On  the  threshold-throne  she'd  be 

Sovereign  sole,  nor  dominated 
By  her  chosen  minister: 

Others  might  be  held  and  harried; 
But  no  man  would  dictate  her 
When  she  married! 

When  she  married— as  she  did — 

Found  her  throne  of  Love  rose-hidden; 

And  she  walked  as  she  was  bid 

Without  knowing  she  was  bidden. 

He  could  reign  enough  for  two, 
And  her  maiden  plans  miscarried: 

She  became  the  gentlest  shrew, 
When  she  married. 

II 

When  he  wedded,  so  he  said, 

He'  d  none  of  the  bonds  that  tie  men! 

She,  his  choice,  would  know  who  led 
Ere  they'd  quit  the  shrine  of  Hymen. 

She  might  make  and  mend  his  things; 
See  him  fed  and  softly  bedded: 

He  would  hold  the  house-purse  strings 
When  he  wedded! 

When  he  wedded,  he  would  check 
Butchers',  grocers'  bills,  and  bakers'; 

And  would  find  him  no  soft  geek, 
Milliners  and  mantua-makers! 

He  would  manage  stern  and  well, 
Marriage  he  in  nowise  dreaded; 

But  the  records  do  not  tell 
When  he  wedded! 

141 


UNDERWRITE  APPLE  BOUGHS 

{Rondeau  Redouble} 

Under  white  apple-boughs  Roger  and  I 
Romped  in  the  grass  with  the  sweet  blossoms  sown 

When  slight,  pale  Lois  came  buoyantly  bv, 
Joined  us  and  made  our  fine  frolic  her  own. 

What  was  her  voice  like?      A  bell's  dulcet  tone! 
What  were  her  eyes  like?      Why,    surely  the  sky! 

We  were  leal  subjects  about  her  green  throne, 
Under  white  apple-boughs,  Roger  and  I. 

When  were  winds  so  like  a  lover's  soft  sigh? 
When  has  the  sun  so  entrancingiy  shone? 

Thus  did  I  question,  while  Lois,  half  shy, 
Romped  in  the  grass  with  the  sweet  blossoms  sown. 

Clouds  from  above  us  like  magic  were  blown, 
Arcady  stretched  past  the  reach  of  the  eye, 

Where,  just  before,  the  grey  orchard  had  grown, 
When  slight,  pale  Lois  came  buoyantly  by. 

How  dark  days  drag,  and  how  happv  ones  fly! 
So  the  bright  hours  and  happy  have  flown 

Since  Lois,  failing,  with  spirits  still  high, 
Joined  us  and  made  our  fine  frolic  her  own. 

Lois  seeks  health  in  a  kindlier  zone; 
Roger,  by  some  hasty  hand,  did  he  die 

One  autumn  day,  and  I'm  here  all  alone — 
O  for  the  dole  in  a  year  that  mav  lie!  — 

Under  white  apple-boughs. 


THE  TRIBULATIONS  OF  TRYPHENA 
(Pantoum) 

When  Tryphic  checks  the  month's  accounts 

Jhe  waxes  wroth  and  eloquent. 
The  butcher's  overcharged  an  ounce, 

The  grocer's  bill  is  'off'  a  cent! 

She  waxes  wroth  and  eloquent — • 

Did  we  have  sweetbreads  on  the  first? 

The  grocer's  bill  is  'off'  a  cent! 
Well,  if  this  isn't  quite  the  worst ! 


Did  we  have  sweetbreads  on  the  first? 


lust  see  If  you  can  make  that  out! 


Well,  if  this  isn't  quite  the  worst — 


To  debit  us  with  sauer-kraut ! 


just  see  if    ou  can  make  t 


The  verv  idea  makes  me  ill ! 


Fo  debit  us  with  sauer-kraut  I 


This  must  be  Guggenheimcr's  bui! 


The  very  /dea  makes  me  ill ! 

And  cheese — we  never  Irok  at  cheese! 
This  must  be  Guggenheimcr's  bn'l — 

O  have  a  little  patience,  please  '. 

And  cheese — we  never  look  at  cheese! 

What  shall,  what  can  a  woman  do? 
O  have  a  little  patience,  please! 

Who  will  I  talk  to  if  not   you? 

What  shall,  what  can  a  woman  do 

When  every,  blessed  thing  goes  wrong? 

Who  will  I  talk  to  if  not  you? 

You  know  my  nerves  are  far  from  strong! 


When  every  blessed  thing  goes  wrong, 
(Stuffed  dates   at  fifty  cents  a  pound?) 

You  know  my  nerves  are  far  from  strong! 

(The  wretch!      Said  he'd  send  'samples'  'round!) 

Stuffed  dates  ^  fifty  cents  a  pound! 

Now  where  does  Jane  use  so  much  lard? 
(The  wretch  said  he'd  send  samples  'round!) 

To  keep  my  temper's  pretty  hard! 

Now  where  does  Jane  use  so  much  lard? 

The  butcher's  overcharged  an  ounce! 
(To  keep  my  temper's  pretty  hard 

When  Tryphie  checks  the  months  accounts!) 


144 


BALLADES 


BALLADE  OF  ENTREATY 

(PHYLLIS  TO  DEMOPHOON.) 
By  what  calamitous  mischance 

Your  homeward  galley  came  to  keel 
Of  Sithon's  bays  the  blue  expanse 

But  cold  Neptunus  can  reveal. 

Nor  he,  nor  mightier  Zeus  can  heal 
These  sapping  wounds  that  yawn  apace, 

Till  you  for  passionate  woe  or  weal 
Come  back,  my  Love,  come  back  to  Thrace. 

Your  hero-sire's  deliverance 

Though  she  had  compassed  with  the  zeal 
Of  love,  no  tender  sustenance 

To  Ariadne  did  he  deal 

Pang-torn  at  Naxos,  and  I  feel 
Than  hers  more  grievous  is  my  case. 

Ere  Madness  sets  on  me  its  seal 
Come  back,  my  Love,  come  back  to  Thrace! 

My  pleasant  shores  lie  in  a  trance 
Deep  as  the  winters  that  congeal 

The  blood  whose  poor  inheritance 
Tenebrious  Scythia  is.      The  steel 
Of  dolorous  skies  strikes  till  I  reel 

The  heart  you  wakened,  and  this  place 
Re-echoes  with  my  vain  appeal: 

Come  back,  my  Love,  come  back  to  Thrace. 

You  Zeus  made  comelier  than  leal; 

Me,  for  an  almond-tree's  embrace 
For  aye — like  that  whereby  I  kneel — 

Ere  you  come  back,  my  Love,  to  Thrace. 


'47 


BALLADE  OF  LONGING 

{Ballade  d  double  refrain) 
Regnant,  with  glitter  and  glare, 

Dust,  and  a  host  of  deceits, 
Summer  burns  red  in  the  air; 

Fever  stalks  mad  through  the  streets. 

O  for  the  shore  wise  retreats! 
O  for  the  salt  breeze  that  yields 

Speed  to  the  pleasuring  fleets! — 
O  for  the  green  of  the  fields ! 

Down  from  his  zenith-high  lair 

Blaze  of  the  sun-lion  beats. 
Here  one  reels,  one's  swooning  there — 

Fever  stalks  mad  through  the  streets. 

O  for  a  lake's  silvern  sheets 
Skirted  with  groves!      For  deep  wealds 

Dowered  with  resinous  sweets ! 
O  for  the  green  of  the  fields ! 

Here  in  the  park  off  the  square 

Stretches  a  shadow  that  cheats 
The  faint  to  its  sultrier  snare. 

Fever  stalks  mad  through  the  streets. 

O  for  a  wood  that  repeats 
Bird-songs  and  brook-songs  and  shields 

Man  from  these  merciless  heats ! 
O  for  the  green  of  the  fields! 

Scorching  each  soul  that  it  meets, 
Fever  stalks  mad  through  the  streets. 
Far  from  the  power  it  wields, 
O  for  the  green  of  the  fields ! 


148 


BALLADE  DES  PAPILLONS 

( Irregular  ) 

Wealth  is  a  sweet! 

( How  can  it  be  ? ) 
Glittering  cheat, 

False  as  the  sea. 

Hail !     Poverty ! 
Wealth  is  a  thrall! 

And  what  are  we  ? 
Butterflies  all. 

Fame  is  a  sweet ! 

(  How  can  it  be  ? ) 
Worth's  dealt  defeat, 

TV  indign,  victory. 

False  as  the  sea, 
Fame  is  a  thrall! 

And  what  are  we? 
Butterflies  all. 

Love  is  a  sweet ! 

(  How  can  it  be  ? ) 
Ah!  fair  Deceit, 

Poison  not  me. 

False  as  the  sea, 
Love  is  a  thrall! 

And  what  are  we  ? 
Butterflies  all. 

Life  is  a  sweet 

Tinctured  with  gall! 
And  what  are  we  ? 

Butterflies  all. 


149 


BALLADE  OF  MODERN  LOVE 

And  still  we  play  deep  at  the  game  of  hearts, 

As  did  they  of  the  courts  those  old  dim  days. 
Our  Romeos  bleed  of  the  coy  god's  darts; 

Our  troubadours  in  amatory  phrase 

Disburden  them:  our  knights,  with  eyes  a-blaze, 
Go  armed  with  roses,  comfits;  this  their  vaunt: 

"As  ours,  no  swain  has  gone  such  loyal  ways, 
Since  leal  Leander  swam  the  Hellespont!" 

Dulcinea,  she  models  toothsome  tarts; 

Rowena  goes  to  shop  in  yellow  chaise, 
Who  erstwhile  queened  the  lists.      Of  warring  arts 

Poor  ken  has  Helen;  but  o'er- well  she  plays 

Sonata,  fugue:    Ruth  paints  as  well  as  prays. 
Staunch-true  is  each,  each  clouds  as  little  daunt 

As  any  Hero  of  the  virelais, 
Since  leal  Leander  swam  the  Hellespont. 

And  here  some  power  impishly  disparts 

Men's  views  of  modern  love,  for  one  inveighs 

Against  all  passion  while  his  neighbor  smarts 
'Til  he  has  lavished  on  it  ardent  praise: 
And  this  year's  love  's  a  jest,  churl  Tertius  says. 

Yet,  in  our  Age,  despite  the  jibe,  the  taunt, 

We  love  as  none  have  loved, — or  men  or  fays, — 

Since  leal  Leander  swam  the  Hellespont. 

Prince,  whether  Love  is  strengthened  or  decays, 
My  sweet  and  I  are — and  no  more  we  want — 

The  happiest  pair,  whatever  goes  or  stays, 
Since  leal  Leander  swam  the  Hellespont! 


BALLADE  OF  THE  TENTH  MUSE 

"Be  tbou  the  Tenth  Muse:  ten  times  more  in  worth 
Than  those  old  Nine  which  rhymers  invocate!' ' 

—Shakespeare,  Sonnet  XXXVIII. 

Not  in  the  Heav'n-girt  house  of  Jupiter, 

Him  who  begat  the  worshipt,  tuneful  Nine, 

Is  there  an  one  that  I,  at  point  of  spur 

Or  stretched  on  rack,  would  own  as  muse  of  mine, 
Though  in  her  charms  she  rivalled  Proserpine, 

In  wisdom,  Pallas.      I  refuse 

Else  than  a  dark-eyed  mortal  to  enshrine, 

And,  sweetheart,  thou  wilt  be  my  muse. 

Young  Erato,  once  I  loved  fondly  her, — 

She  was  inconstant  as  the  April  shine ! 
Urania,  star-crowned,  did  nathless  err 

Who  wed  with  Bacchus,  reeking  of  his  wine. 

And  Clio  whispered  me  a  tearful  line, 
Her  gore-dipt  quill  would  have  me  use: 

Ah!  brighter  inspiration's  that  of  thine, 
And — sweetheart,  thou  wilt  be  my  muse? 

Theirs  be  the  palm,  the  laurels  and  the  myrrh: 

The  lute,  the  flute  and  services  condign. 
Thou  shalt  have  violets  and  lavender, 

And  hyssop    sweet,  and  white-belled  honey-bine 

Those  night-black,  wilful  tresses  to  confine: 
A  homage  paid  thee  that  renews 

With  each  new  day,  nor  fails  at  Youth's  decline; 
And,  sweetheart,  thou  wilt  be  my  muse. 

My  love,  thou  art,  as  sweethearts  are,  divine; 

Yet  more  the  rhymer-swain  pursues: 
A  Pow'r  to  invocate;  a  muse,  in  fine, 

And,  sweetheart,  thou  wilt  be  my  muse! 


BALLADE  OF  CHIVALRY 

The  mace,  the  gauntlet  and  the  keen,  bright  lance, 

Are  only  relics  of  the  days  that  were; 
And  Rozinante  in  a  mild  way  grants 

That  oats  are  sumptuous  equinal  fare. 

Blithe  Robin  Hood  has  lost  his  whilom  care 
Of  mesdames  lorn  and  men  in  poor  estate, 

And  fewer  grow  the  knightly  ones  who  dare 
Young  Raleigh's  quick  conceit  to  emulate. 

To-day,  in  lieu  of  those  old,  true  gallants, 

Are  modish  swains  through  monocles  that  stare; 
Whose  best  exploit  is  deftness  in  the  dance. 

To  close  a  draughty  door,  to  place  a  chair, 

To  lift  a  handkerchief,  to  bravely  bear 
Through  stifling  crush  an  ice  upon  a  plate — 

These  are  the  pretty  offices  we  share 
Young  Raleigh's  quick  conceit  to  emulate. 

Who  of  these  years  can  weave  a  wild  romance 

When  knights  are  not,  and  squires  serve  otherwhere: 

When  most  distracted  maids  are  debutantes, 
Each  frowning  battlement  a  rose  parterre, 
Moats  tennis-courts,  and  castles  all  of  air — 

The  only  tourneys  that  we  celebrate, 

In  drawing-rooms, — the  lists  where  we  repair 

Young  Raleigh's  quick  conceit  to  emulate. 

Prince,  read  your  ladye  not  from  vellums  rare 
The  thrilling  tales  our  age  that  antedate 

Lest  she  may  mourn  we  have  no  time  to  spare 
Young  Raleigh's  quick  conceit  to  emulate. 


A  BALLADE  OF  MANY  LOVES 

The  way  of  hearts  is  hilly 
And  hard  to  gauge  methinks; 

Cecilia  loves  a  silly, 

Cassandra  loves  a  sphinx : 

Wee  Stella  loves  to  play  high  jinks 

With  me — her  doting  daddy; 
Selena  loves  the  links, 

And  Kitty  loves  a  caddy. 

Pale  Charlotte  loves  Chantilly, 

(From  creamy  lace  she  shrinks,) 
And  when  the  weather's  chilly 

Amelia  loves  her  minks. 

Rebecca  loves  her  bashful  Binks, 
Honora  loves  her  Paddy, 

Helene  loves  skating  rinks, 
And  Kitty  loves  a  caddy. 

Sweet  Alice  loves  a  lily, 

Penelope  loves  pinks, 
And  Dinah,  willy-nilly, 

She  loves  her  funny  kinks. 

The  baby  loves  forbidden  chinks, 
Mamma  her  blue-eyed  laddie, 

Dear  Granny  forty  winks, 
And  Kitty  loves  a  caddy. 

Kate's  an  old-fashioned  minx, 
Consistent — never  faddy  !  — 

She  loves  the  tea  she  drinks, 
And  so  she  loves  the  caddy. 


BALLADE  FOR  BEDTIME 

Come,  little  girl,  it's  nearly  eight 

And  time  that  you  were  tucked  in  bed! 
Put  up  the  book,  the  tale  will  wait 

Until  the  hours  of  dark  are  sped. 

The  moon  is  young,  and  daylight's  dead, 
But  from  the  grate  the  red-gold  gleams 

Of  fire-light  on  the  floor  are  shed — 
Good-night,  my  child,  and  pleasant  dreams! 

A  resting  place  have  small  and  great — 

A  hutch  for  Bunny,  stall  for  Ned, 
A  nest  for  Robin  and  his  mate, 

Puss  has  a  cozy  rug  of  red. 

For  Bossy  fine,  sweet  straw  is  spread, 
In  silver  beds  lie  sleepy  streams, 

This  pillow's  for  a  tired  head — 
Good  night,  my  child,  and  pleasant  dreams! 

Love  ably  monitors  our  gate, 

There's  naught  for  you  to  fear  or  dread: 
The  Bogie-man  is  out  of  date, 

And  fairy-folk  are  all  well-bred. 

May  your  dear  feet  be  ever  led 
By  paths  which  catch  the  sun's  best  beams — 

(Pray,  Nurse,  speak  low  and  softly  tread!) 
Good  night,  my  child,  and  pleasant  dreams! 

She  sleeps,  God  bless  her,  and  my  thoughts  are  fled 
To  that  dim  time — how  dim  it  seems! — 

When  my  dear  mother  bent  o'er  me  and  said: 
"Good-night,  my  child,  and  pleasant  dreams!" 


'54 


BALLADE  OF  FROCKS  AND  PINAFORES 
Anon  Jack  slays  his  giants  still, 

And  Misses  Muffet  from  the  shade 
Of  deft  Arachne  scamper  will, 

I  doubt  me  not,  while  rhymes  are  made; 

The  stubborn  Moll,  with  hoe  and  spade, 

Fills  her  old  role  of  botanist. 

The  goose  still  plays  at  alchemist; 
The  mouse,  sad  havoc  in  our  clocks 

As  in — that  craved  no  exorcist — 
The  days  of  pinafores  and  frocks. 

The  runners  glisten  on  the  hill 

Sheened  in  the  folds  of  Frost's  brocade: 
The  coasters'  voices,  they  are  shrill 

As  when  on  hearth-rug  deep  I  stayed 

In  ambush  with  my  brave  brigade, 

And  named  each  metal  martialist. 

O  time  of  sweets  none  could  resist, 
And  gingerbread  in  cupboard  crocks! 

Their  skies  were  rose  and  amethyst, 
The  days  of  pinafores  and  frocks. 

Sad  years  have  come  and  gone,  until 
Meseems  all  mirth's  a  masquerade; 

And  all  that's  left  of  loves  grown  chill 

Are  scars  brought  from  the  sweet  crusade. 
Friends  waxen  dour  as  Moll,  betrayed; 
And  giants,  I  have  found,  exist 
That  o'ertop  Jack's.      But  who  insist 

Life's  all  a  huge  Pandoran  box, 

Those  honeyed  days  have  surely  missed, — 

The  days  of  pinafores  and  frocks. 

Fortuna,  give  me  what  ye  list 

Of  Fame  and  all  good  things  ye  wist, 

Ye  can't  restore  my  childhood  locks 
Nor  bring  me  back  the  sunshine-kist, 

The  days  of  pinafores  and  frocks. 

'55 


Who  sail  o'er  seas  to  worlds  begrimed  and  old, 
And  worship  at  their  altars  of  decay, 

What  hath  so  'witched  your  eyes  that  you  behold 
Such  charms,  such  beauty  there?  Nor  imp  nor  fay 
Could  wean  your  footsteps  or  your  sight  away 
From  this  sweet  land,  had  you  but  slightly  seen 
Its  gentle  hills  in  cope  of  summer  green, 

Or  trod  its  fields  where  peace  and  plenty  be. 
This  is  Rest's  temple  and  Content's  demesne, 

This  brooch  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 

Here,  set  in  rim  of  rocks  and  sunlight  gold, 
A  lavish  nature  makes  her  wide  display 

Of  every  scenic  jewel  tongue  has  told, 
Or  quill  or  pen  has  written  of,  or  may 
In  far-off  centuries  anew  portray. 
Like  silver  ribbons,  rivers  run  between 
Their  wooded  banks,  where  never  dole  nor  threne 

Nor  din  of  marts  may  mar  the  melody 

Of  birds.  As  they,  to  chant  its  praise  I'm  keen  — 

This  brooch  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 

'Tis  not  the  warrior  alone  that's  bold, 

Because  his  blood  flows  for  his  natal  clay. 

There  are  stout  hearts,  whose  trials  manifold 
Find  them  increased  in  vigor  day  by  day. 
Theirs  is  the  meed  of  all  earth's  cheers,  I  say. 
Such  hearts  have  made  this  land  a  shrine  serene 
Where  happiness  from  highest  height  to  sheen 

Of  ocean  foam  reigns  with  prosperity; 

Not  the  least  treasure  of  its  gracious  queen, 

This  brooch  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 

Prince,  close   your  caskets.    All  the  gems  they  screen 
Despite  their  cost  are  lustreless  and  mean. 

Come  for  a  season  and  possess  with  me 
Far  from  your  court's  mad  tumult,  spite  and  spleen, 

This  brooch  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 

156 


BALLADE  OF  ANNISQUAM 

I  crave  not  Tempe's  vale  nor  Enna's  plain 
With  all  their  charm  and  sweet  invitingness; 

Nor  do  most  restless  seasons  find  me  fain 

On  Hybla's  fragrant  ways  my  feet  to  press. 
I  know  a  spot  still  free  of  show's  excess, 
I  know  a  purple  bank  where  wild  thyme  grows; 
I  know  a  garden,  in  its  pales  that  shows 

Old-fashioned  flow'rs  in  banks  bestowed. 

Dear  Summer-land!  And  these  your  lover  knows, 

The  high,  white  dunes,  the  willow  road. 

If  to  the  blue  vEgean's  shore  the  strain 
Of  Pan,  his  pipe,  comes  overhills,  no  less 

The  heartwrung  wail  of  Thetis  in  her  pain 
Uprises  from  the  wave,  big  with  distress. 
But  here,  where  far-outstretched  to  caress 
A  happy  sea,  the  land  a  strong  arm  throws, 
Is  heard  no  anguished  sighs,  no  echoed  woes, 

No  sound  that  tears  and  sorrow  bode. 

No,  only  song  and,  where  the  salt  breeze  blows, 

The  high,  white  dunes,  the  willow  road. 

Out  at  the  eastern  point  the  wider  main 
Pays  to  the  rocky  shore  its  wild  address. 

The  whistling  buoy's  o'er-dolorous  refrain,  [stress 

That   warns   'gainst    awful    reefs,   booms  through    the 
Of  wind  and  weather  such  as  ne'er  transgress 
In  peace-girt  Annisquam.   There  is  the  prose,      [goes, 
Here,   the  sweet  rhyme.    There  the  black  schooner 

Here,  flashing  sails  take  up,  unload 

Light  hearts  that  love  beach,  cove  and  blossomed  close, 

The  high,  white  dunes,  the  willow  road. 

Prince,  there  are  Parks  and  Piers,  you  may  have  those, 
Where  beauish  garb  obtains  and  beauties  pose. 

Give  me,  untaken  of  the  mode, 
At  Annisquam  my  yacht,  my  garden  rows, 

The  high,  white  dunes,  the  willow  road. 


BALLADE  OF  THE  GOLDEN  STATE 

Cythera  desolated  over-seas 

Lies,  all  her  storied  charms  afar  dispread 

On  torrid  winds  and  reeking  in  the  lees 

Of  Neptune's  salt  sea-wine:      Her  lovers  dead 
'Tombed  in  the  jagged  reef,  their  vows  unsaid 
For  everness  of  cons.      There  is  moan 
In  ev'ry  surge  that  tumbles  o'er  her  throne 

Once  set  on  hills  that  bathed  in  airs  divine, 

But  better  things  than  she  e'er  shewed  are  shown 

On  this  thrice  happy  strand  of  song  and  shine. 

The  golden  fruit  of  the  Hesperides 

From  reach  of  mortal  ken  is  faded,  fled: 

The  blossoms  that  made  drunken  Hybla's  bees 
With  surfeit  sweet  of  sweets,  long  since  are  shed 
Arcadian  wines  and  ways  are  soured  or  sped; 
But  here  are  groves  of  gold  bound  in  a  zone 
Of  bloom  as  honey-sweet  as  Hybla's  own! 

The  deep  delights  of  Cypris'  kingdoms  nine 
Are  Sodom-apples  by  the  pleasures  known 

On  this  thrice  happy  strand  of  song  and  shine. 

My  strong,  young  mariner,  ship  an  ye  please 

To  unsunned,  blustrous  bays  where  sails  are  shred; 

Or  summer,  if  ye  list,  in  Arctic  bise, 

Or  draw  equatorward  the  journey's  thread. 
When  grog  is  plenty  and  the  mate's  abed 
No  shrieking  gales  ye  mind  from  east'ard  blown, 
But  strength  will  fail  and  hours  grow  lorn  and  lone. 

Then,  make  the  last  port  on  this  shore  of  mine! 
Here's  Youth's  Renaissance, — care  forever  flown, 

On  this  thrice  happy  strand  of  song  and  shine. 

Prince,  leave  the  Orient's  ashes  and  atone 

For  misspent  years.      The  East  is  haughty  grown! 

We  lack  her  tumult,  tinsel,  manners  fine; 
But  Beauty  speaks  from  peak,  from  tree,  from  stone, 

On  this  thrice  happy  strand  of  song  and  shine. 

158 


BALLADE  OF  FALILA  AND  WESTERN  DAYS 

(Ballade  en  guise  de  Rondeau) 
Falila,  sweet-eyed,  of  far-distant  plain, 

Paw-paw  and  May-apple  ripe  where  she  strays. 
Drear  nevermore  are  the  hours  of  the  rain 

While  bright  smile-sunshine  upon  her  lips  plays. 

When  my  life  led  me  in  uncheerful  ways, 
She  stanched  the  torrent  of  trouble  and  pain, — 

Chiefest  of  joys  in  the  dear  western  days, 
Falila! 

Falila,  bright-eyed,  O  long  is  the  train 

Ready  with  voices  to  sound  in  her  praise ! 
Such  is  her  music,  that  birds  of  the  lane 

Shrink  from  the  echoing  of  their  own  lays. 

I  hear  the  words  of  her  modest  denays: 
Coy,  unassuming,  unboasting,  unvain, 

Thus  were  you  e'er  in  the  glad  western  days, 
Falila! 

Falila,  dark-eyed,  the  fathomless  main 
Is  not  so  deep  as  her  heart:  and  the  rays 

Of  the  noon  sun  have  a  something  to  gain 

'Ere  they  can  cope  with  her  winsomeness.      Stays 
Each  favored  one  at  her  court,  and  obeys 

Her  sweet  behests  with  no  thought  to  complain: 
Just  as  I  did  in  the  dead  western  days, 
Falila! 


Prince,  does  my  poorly-writ  verses  contain 
That  which  the  worshipping  lover  betrays  ? 

Ah!  my  heart's  bound  with  a  light,  golden  chain 
Since  I  knew  her  in  the  dear  western  days, — 
Falila. 


'59 


BALLADE  OF  THE  AVENUE 

Feathers  and  flowers  and  lace, 

Velvet  of  wonderful  pile; 
Worn  with  as  wonderful  grace 

Furs  from  far  sea  and  defile: 

Gems  from  lands  south  of  the  Nile, 
Broadcloth  and  silk  and  brocade — 

This  is  the  march  past  of  Style, 
This  is  the  Easter  Parade. 

Fashion's  the  god  of  the  race 

Crowding  this  marvellous  mile. 
Here  is  a  quieter  place, 

Pray  let  us  stand  for  awhile. 

Where,  save  on  Gotham's  gay  isle, 
Is  such  display  of  wealth  made? 

This  is  the  march  past  of  Style, 
This  is  the  Easter  Parade. 

There  is  a  beautiful  face: — 

In  all  this  festival  file 
Not  a  thing's  sordid  or  base, 

Yet  not  one  truly  worth  while! 

Grandeur  and  gossip  and  guile, 
Trinkets  and  frills  that  must  fade — 

This  is  the  march  past  of  Style, 
This  is  the  Easter  Parade. 


Cupid,  how  bravely  you  smile, 
But  you're  de  trap  I'm  afraid! 

Here  are  no  hearts  you  may  wile- 
This  is  the  Easter  Parade. 


1 60 


BALLADE  OF  MARCH  WINDS 

In  embryo  riding  each  gust 

Of  March  is  a  hundred  diseases. 
Willy-nilly  you're  out  for  the  dust; 

The  Public  at  large  coughs  and  sneezes. 

Your  neighbor's  asthmatic — he  wheezes  — 
Go  South?      How  he  wishes  he  could! 

But  the  doctor  collecting  fat  fees  is — 
It's  an  ill  wind  blows  nobody  good! 

A  corner!      (Well  !  laugh  if  you  must.) 

My  Derby's  the  sport  of  the  breezes 
'Till  rescued  by  one  (I  mistrust) 

Who  a  stranger  to  four-o'clock-teas  is. 

Sore  his  need  of  a  biscuit  and  cheese  is — 
That  look  can't  be  misunderstood — 

And  I  think,  as  his  guerdon  he  seizes, 
It's  an  ill  wind  blows  nobody  good! 

The  poet  is  sadly  nonplussed, 

No  flower  on  his  favorite  leas  is: 
His  Muse,  never  very  robust, 

Collapses  when  March  'round  her  knees  is. 

He  longs  for  new  leaves  on  the  treeses,  * 
He  longs  for  new  wings  in  the  wood; 

He  can't  sing  of  spring  while  he  freezes! 
(It's  an  ill  wind  blows  nobody  good!) 

Adele's  on  my  arm  (which  she  squeezes) 

Charmant  in  her  Saxony  hood. 
She  may  snuggle  as  close  as  she  pleases — 

It's  an  ill  wind  blows  nobody  good! 


*  By  Special  License. 

161 


BALLADE  OF  THE  BORROWER  MONTH 

That  month  whose  signet  is  The  Ram 

Rules  madly  as  an  early  Czar: 
Between  the  Lion  and  the  Lamb 

She  crushes  all  beneath  her  car. 

Her  stinging  knouts  leave  many  a  scar 
That  burn  and  throb  with  fever  heat; 
We're  only  serfs  spurned  by  her  feet 

Through  dark,  interminable  days; 
But  though  she  blind  me  with  her  sleet, 

I  love  March  for  her  mad,  wild  ways. 

A  child  of  summer  though  I  am, 

And  prize  the  honey  in  her  jar, 
Some  cantrip  in  their  bitter  dram 

Endears  these  winds  that  rend  and  mar. 

Bare  branches,  or  a  jasmine  star 
That  makes  the  whole  world  soft  and  sweet? 
To  struggle  up  a  stormy  street, 

Or  drift  unhatted  down  blue  bays? 
T! 'our  choice  is  mine — but,  I  repeat, 

I  love  March  for  her  mad,  wild  ways. 

When  Leo's  roar  becomes  a  sham, 

The  Lamb  still  bleating  from  afar, 
March  hoists  a  crocus  oriflamme 

And  shows  how  lovely  tulips  are. 

Then,  sheathing  every  scimitar 
Wherewith  she  pierced  us,  makes  retreat 
In  borrowed  braveries — O  cheat !  — 

Young  April's  tears,  a  smile  of  May's. 
Yet  pardoning  this  last  deceit 

I  love  March  for  her  mad,  wild  ways. 

Dear  Alison,  the  song's  complete 
And  all  for  you — for  you,  my  sweet, 

Are  like  the  month  it  seeks  to  praise. 
Ah  !  but  remember,  I  entreat, 

I  ki'e  March  for  her  mad,  wild  ways. 


BALLADE  OF  APRIL  WEATHER 

Now  March  has  sheathed  her  knives,  and  sheened  her  lead 
Of  sea  and  sky  in  gold  of  richest  vein; 

And  leagues  of  smiling  wold  are  overspread 

With  new,  enchanting  green.      The  scars,  the  stain 
Of  wintry  havoc  on  broad  fields;  the  bane 
Of  Arctic-bitter  days,  their  blinding  sleet, — 
The  mem'ry  oft, — these  do  evanish  fleet; 

For  Winter  totters  from  his  tott'ring  throne, 
And,  back  from  highway  rut  and  paven  street, 

Deep  in  dim  woods  anemones  are  blown. 

Of  thaw  the  slow  drip,  drip,  from  eaves  o'erhead 
Tells  softly,  dashing  from  the  sill  to  pane, 

Soon  will  be  large,  blue  violets,  instead 

Of  high,  white  drifts  that  by  the  ways  have  lain. 
Foreshows  approach  of  Zephyr  glist'ning  vane, 
He  of  the  fragrant  breath  and  train  replete 
With  honeyed  days.      The  flying,  homeward  feet 

Are  slower  grown  since  winds  no  more  make  moan; 
And,  Earth  again  doffed  of  her  winding-sheet, 

Deep  in  dim  woods  anemones  are  blown. 

The  show'rs,  wrought  warp  and  weft  of  silver  thread, 
In  frequent  falls  they  drench  the  willing  plain 

Until,  where  swollen  brook  and  river  wed, 
Seems  Thessaly  beneath  Deucalion's  reign 
In  miniature.      Though  tears  flow  now  amain 
Will  follow  smiles,  and  eftsoons  we  shall  meet 
For  morning  chats  upon  the  garden-seat. 

Of  cynics  scorned,  of  city-bound  unknown, 
Awakened  by  the  warm  rain's  gentle  beat, 

Deep  in  dim  woods  anemones  are  blown. 

Love,  to  wear  hot-house  roses  is  unmeet 
When  April  weather  comes  back   to  its  own: 

For  see!  besides  the  roses,  times  more  sweet, 

It  to  your  cheek  restores,  in  our  retreat 
Deep  in  dim  woods,  anemones  are  blown. 

163 


BALLADE  OF  SHROVETIDE 

(Pancake  Tuesday} 

The  day  of  cakes  and  no  brisk  cook 

To  charm  us  by  her  sorcery — 
By  magic  learned  from  no  black  book, 

An  all-unwritten  recipe! 

A  plague  take  recreant  cooks,  say  we! 
Who'll  minister  to  our  distress? 

A  volunteer!  Lo!  it  is  she — 
Perilla,  in  cuisine  undress! 

The  batter's  ready.      Give  a  look! 

What's  this,  pray,  if  not  alchemy? 
It  gurgles  like  a  happy  brook 

From  cup  to  griddle,  steadily. 

And  now  she  turns  them —  one!  two!  three! 
Brown-golden  spheres  of  toothsomeness, 

(Her  cheeks  might  well  befool  a  bee!) 
Perilla  in  cuisine  undress. 

And  now — hot  plates!  while  from  its  nook 

The  nectar  of  the  maple  tree 
Is  brought,  and  taken  from  its  hook 

The  firkin  pays  a  splendid  fee. 

Add  what  you  will — a  pot  of  tea, 
A  juicy  rasher, — I  confess 

The  picture' s  feast  enough  for  me — 
Perilla  in  cuisine  undress. 


Come  Lent  with  your  long  litany, 
I  shall  not  chafe  at  your  duress, 

For  every  sombre  hour  I'll  see 
Perilla  in  cuisine  undress. 


164 


BALLADE  OF  A  SUMMER  NIGHT 

"Sing  lullaby,  as  women  do 
Wherewith  they  bring  their  babes  to  rest.'1'' 
—  George  Gascoigne(  1537-1577-  ) 

To  end  is  drawn 

The  long,  hot  day; 
The  light  is  gone 

And  Night's  cool  gray 

Cloaks  hill  and  bay. 
"Let  worries  go 

Till  morning's  ray, 
Hush  sweet,  by-low." 

Up  midnight's  lawn 

Black  shadows  stray; 
The  long  streets  yawn 

As  dark  as  they. 

"Why  wakeful  stay 
Eyes,  glist'ning  so? 

Forget  your  play ! 
Hush  sweet,  by-low." 

And  on  and  on 

Night  goes  its  way 
Towards  rosy  dawn 

That  shall  betray 

The  soon-grown  sway 
Of  Fever,  foe 

That  brings  dismay. 
"Hush  sweet,  by-low." 

Pray  mother,  pray, 

The  heart  beats  slow; 
Nor  cease  to  say 
"Hush  sweet,  by-low." 

165 


BALLADE  OF  BLUE  SEAS 

Grant  me  a  small  boat's  captaincy 

Whose  twenty  virgin  feet 
Still  dance  beside  her  builder's  quay, 

The  snow  upon  her  sheet: 
And  though  the  world  ashore  is  sweet 

Inside  one  garden  pale, 
With  glad  dispatch  I'll  join  your  fleet 

Blue  summer  seas  to  sail. 

How  much  misled  's  the  zealot  he 

That  pedals  through  the  heat 
An  hundred  long,  parched  miles  to  be 

In  at  a  dusty  meet, 
When  there  below  the  thirsty  street, 

Rocked  in  the  strong,  salt  gale, 
The  yachts  invite  us — nay!  entreat — 

Blue  summer  seas  to  sail. 

The  purple-black  of  woods  to  me 

Is  but  a  sombre  cheat; 
The  arbor's  fading  canopy 

A  leafy,  poor  deceit: 
The  gentle  lap  and  rhythmic  beat 

Of  waves — these  drown  all  bale! 
It's  joy  that  can't  grow  obsolete, 

Blue  summer  seas  to  sail. 

But  Flora  dear,  no  Joy's  complete 
Without  you!     Fly  your  gaol — 

This  cushioned,  drowsy  window-seat — 
Blue  summer  seas  to  sail. 


1 66 


BALLADE  OF  A  CITY  BOWER 

Of  bosky  dells  with  brown  and  silver  brooks 

Pipes  numberless  perennially  shrill, 
For  publishment  betimes  in  sightly   books, 

Songs  breathing  righteous  praise  of  bough  and  rill. 

These  are  fair  spots,  but  here  God's  gracious  will, 
A  stone's  throw  from  the  city's  heart  and  din, 

Gives  me  as  fair — let  me  deserve  it  still ! — 
My  upper  window  where  the  elm  looks  in. 

They  love  dark  things  who  celebrate  the  rooks 
That  build  in  woody  places  mirk  and  chill: 

My  neighbor,  too,  misled,  on  sturdy  hooks 
A  painted  cage  hangs  from  his  window-sill 
And  hears  not  in  its  captive's  ev'ry  trill 

Pleas  for  the  liberty  he  may  not  win. 

Those  are  free,  lusty  throats  with  tune  that  fill 

My  upper  window  where  the  elm  looks  in. 

A  glist'ring,  turquoise  bay  it  overlooks, 
My  pleasant  bower,  and  a  gentle  hill 

Gilt  with  wild  mustard  blossoms.      There  are  nooks 
Beyond  them,  doubtless,  which  a  little  skill 
In  ballad-making  must  misprize.      To  thrill 

The  world  with  perfect  lays  let   them  begin 

Who  can.      This  theme  befits  an  humbler  quill — 

My  upper  window  where  the  elm  looks  in. 

When  day  is  over  at  the  rumbling  mill 
And  slipped  the  gyves  of  office  discipline, 

Here  is  an  exorcist  for  ev'ry  ill — 

My  upper  window  where  the  elm  looks  in. 


167 


BALLADE  OF  THE  SUMMER  PARK 

Here  by  the  gate  the  elms  are  tall 

And  deep  the  shadow  rugs  that  lie 
Beneath  my  feet.      No  statued  hall, 

No  Obelisk  can  satisfy; 

Nor  fulsome  Zoo  allure  me  nigh 
The  cages  of  its  shaggy  freaks, 

Whilst  still  by  here  elects  to  fly 
The  cyclodonna  in  her  breeks. 

It  takes  no  effort  to  recall 

The  days  before  the  Park  was  spry 
With  wheels,  and  staid,  slow  rigs  were  all 

One  saw.      'Tis  true  you  might  descry 

Upon  the  bridle-paths  one  shy, 
Fair  rider  in  a  dozen  weeks, 

But  nothing  ever  to  outvie 
The  cyclodonna  in  her  breeks. 

I  know  there's  music  on  the  Mall, 

And  further  out  that  Lake  and  sky 
Seen  from  the  Terrace  hold  in  thrall 

Full  many  a  dim  but  ravished  eye. 

Yet  here  I  stay  to  see  flash  by 
That  nymph  with  health  writ  on  her  cheeks, 

Whom  no  prude  shall  to  me  decry, 
The  cvclodonna  in  her  breeks. 


Coquette,  afoot  or  stationed  high 
Upon  a  cart  that  jolts  and  creaks, 

We  don't  see  you,  we  only  spy 
The  cyclodonna  in  her  breeks! 


168 


BALLADE  OF  THE  YACHT 

Sweet  Eos  dons  her  blossom-broidered  gown 

Whose  rath,  green  bodice  with  the  dew  is  dight; 

The  clang  and  clash  of  brazen  bells  the  town, 

Awake  from  drowse  and  dream  to  love  and  light. 
His  vigil  ends  the  owl  on  lonely  height; 
The  soon-ris'n  Nimrod  pipes  the  am'rous  quail: 
The  prisoned  bird  sings  in  his  gilded  gaol; 

Trade's  cumbrous  wheels  begin  another  day: 
The  sun-imps  dance  upon  its  reefless  sail, 

And  with  the  wind  the  yacht  goes  down  the  bay. 

At  zenith-height  is  Phoebus:  in  her  crown, 

The  Day  sees  sheep  and  shepherd  stretched  outright 

Deep  in  their  quiet  nooning  on  the  down, 

And  dappled  kine,  breast-high  in  waters  white. 
The  wanton,  purple  passion-flow'rs  invite 
Each  passing  bee  across  the  trellised  pale; 
With  cloth  spread  in  the  bosky  intervale 

The  brookside  angler  lunches,  cares  away: 
The  booming  waves  intone  a  Stentor  wail, 

And  with  the  wind  the  yacht  goes  down  the  bay. 

Still  at  the  wheel  remains  the  boatswain  brown, 

When  golden  stars  peep  through  the  roof  of  Night ;. 

In  murky  shade  the  distant  headlands  frown, 

And  raven  rooks  shriek  on  their  homeward  flight: 
Abroad  is  Cynthia,  unveiled  and  bright, 
With  silvern  douceurs  for  the  hill  and  swale: 
The  tavern  host  commends  the  evening  ale, 

And  slattern  wives  go  gossiping.      The  spray 
Of  sea-salt  waves  flies  in  the  gentle  gale, 

And  with  the  wind  the  yacht  goes  down  the  bay. 

Prince,  close  your  book  upon  the  idle  tale: 
Romance  is  cheap,  and  Fantasy  is  frail. 

At  Dian's  court  there  homage  is  to  pay, — 
Come,  she  attends  upon  its  glist'ring  trail; 

And  with  the  wind  the  yacht  goes  down  the  bay.. 

169 


BALLADE  OF  OCTOBER  DUSK 

Orange-scarlet  afterglow 

Where  was  fiercest  gold  before; 
Rose  and  purple  isles  a-row, 

Higher  than  the  swallows  soar; 

Plaything  bolts  of  loud-voiced  Thor. 

What  if  day  goes  goldenly 

And  the  garden  still  may  be 
Redolent  of  mint  and  musk 

When  my  love  is  leaving  me 
In  the  chill  October  dusk? 

Southern  skies  a  bright  brooch  show 
Such  as  lady  never  wore; 

New  pale  moon  that  may  know 
As  she  enters  at  the  door 
We  go  out  hearts  sad  and  sore 
Smiling  through  our  misery — 
O  the  tearful  comedy ! 

Like  a  boar  with  cruel  tusk 

Parting  wounds  and  then  goes  free, 

In  the  chill  October  dusk. 

There  upon  the  bay  below 

Red  lights,  green  lights,  many-score 
Gleam;  black  hulks  great  shadows  throw 

That  will  haunt  me  evermore. 

"All  aboard!"  and  "All  ashore!" 

Cried  in  drear  monotony; 

Up  creak  gang-planks  strong,  and  we 
Shout  farewell  with  voices  husk, 

As  the  ship  moves  from  the  quay 
In  the  chill  October  dusk. 

Prince,  I  mourn;  you  sup  in  glee. 
Liege,  I  fast;  your  fragrant  tea 

Tempts  me  not,  nor  flaky  rusk; 
For  my  Love  sails  to  the  sea 

In  the  chill  October  dusk. 


BALLADE  OF  THANKSGIVING 

Of  all  the  blessings  men  receive 

Health  is  the  chiefest  it  is  said: 
How  well,  surcease  or  sweet  reprieve 

From  pain  has  shown  whoe'er  some  dread 

And  lingering  ill  has  chained  abed 
Through  periods  of  dire  duress; 

But,  granting  this  boon's  place  the  head, 
Let's  first  give  thanks  for  thankfulness. 

Pure  love  requited!      Ah!  believe 

Him  that  flouts  this,  knave  or  misled. 
Let  not  his  obloquies  aggrieve, 

Smile  down  his  sophistries  instead. 

We  on  whom  Hymen's  torch  has  shed 
Its  light  know  how  dear  eyes  can  bless 

A  hearth, — but  wedded  or  unwed, 
Let's  first  give  thanks  for  thankfulness. 

A  shuttle's  Wealth  from  which  we  weave 

In  Life's  cloth  many  a  golden  thread; 
And  when  its  seas  of  sorrow  heave, 

A  cruse  from  which  the  oil  is  lead. 

Wealth  has  supplied  this  bounteous  spread 
For  which  we  wait  thanks  to  express, 

But  friends,  before  we  break  our  bread, 
Let's  first  give  thanks  for  thankfulness. 


Whose  sense  of  gratitude  is  dead, 
He  lacks  that  gift  which  to  possess 

Gives  joy  when  other  gifts  are  sped: 
Then  first  give  thanks  for  thankfulness. 


BALLADE  OF  THE    MISTLETOE  BOUGH 

I  sing,  like  Omar,  of  a  bough 

'Neath  which  delights  await  us: 
It  rains,  as  long  it  rained  erenow, 

Sweets  that  intoxicate  us; 

Sweets  that  would  never  sate  us 
And  as  the  archives  show, 

Sweets  that  may  haply  mate  us. 
Sing  hey!  the  Mistletoe. 

The  pine  torn  from  a  mountain's  brow, 

Its  odors  penetrate  us 
And  lead  our  feet  from  failure's  slough 

To  heights  that  fascinate  us. 

In  hues  that  stimulate  us 
The  holly-berries  glow, 

But  though  both  captivate  us, 
Sing  hey!  the  Mistletoe. 

Whilst  still  these  brisk  north  winds  endow 

The  bard  with  rare  afflatus, 
We'll  winter  here  nor  grudge,  we  vow, 

His  cap  to  Fortunatus. 

The  chimes  which  now  elate  us 
Proclaim  that  through  the  snow 

Yule's  come  to  recreate  us — 
Sing  hey!  the  Mistletoe. 

Some  love  us  and  some  hate  us: 

Good-will  to  friend  and  foe ! 
And  till  the  saints  translate  us, 

Sing  hey!  the  Mistletoe. 


BALLADE  OF  THE  WHITE  YEAR 

One  crimson  afghan  serving  both,  we  sat 

Heart-sick  through  yester-twilight  grey  and  brief 

And  watched  her  fleetly  press  from  marish  flat 
To  fields  where  lately  shone  the  aureate  sheaf, 
Garbed  like  a  nun,  soft-footed  as  a  thief. 

To-night  she  fills  the  streets  with  her  cold  glare, 

Shrieks  down  long  paths  that  summer's  darlings  were 
And  at  my  door.      But  nay !     To  valleys  wide 

Or  stark,  dark  hills  for  cloister  must  she  fare, 
Not  in  these  walls  shall  any  pale  thing  bide. 

Where  just  erenow  she  had  her  habitat, 

Or  I  misdeem,  no  voice  is  choked  with  grief 

For  her  leave-taking.      As  for  joy  hereat, 
There  is  not  any.      Plainly,  we'd  as  lief 
See  August  hold  the  land  in  thirsty  fief 

Eternally,  as  this  mad  phantom  tear 

The  pleasant  cress  from  wimpling  brooks  and  stare 
Recurrently  at  us  Ophelia-eyed. 

To  cross  our  threshold, — that  she'll  never  dare! 
Not  in  these  walls  shall  any  pale  thing  bide. 

The  bake-house  shops  lure  each  a  shiv'ring  brat, 
Their  flaring  lamps  disclosing  reef  on  reef 

Of  shifting,  drifting  fleece.      This  road  or  that 
A  warring  host  might  take  with  its  good  chief 
And  wake  no  louder  echo  than  a  leaf 
That  falls  on  grass. 

Indoors  let  us  prepare 

A  carnival  of  yellow  lights  and  swear 

O'er  steaming  toddy,  by  the  flow'rs  that  died, 

Until  the  dread  one  comes  who  none  will  spare 
Not  in  these  walls  shall  any  pale  thing  bide. 

Love,  take  the  white  carnation  from  your  hair; 
Throne  in  its  stead  this  glowing  red  one  there. 

Have  fresh  coals  brought;  the  fire  screen  set  aside 
Whose  gilt,  mock  roses  breathe  no  June-time  air. 

Not  in  these  walls  shall  any  pale  thing  bide! 


BALLADE  AGAINST  THE  UTOPIAN  SCREED 

Who  bashless  revileth  his  age, 

Decrying  its  sons  to  a  man, 
He  soureth  and  soileth  his  page 

As  no  hack's  indecency  can. 

If  he  in  our  favor  would  grow 
And  finds  in  our  pleasure  a  meed, 

'Twere  folly,  or  much  I  mistrow, 
To  write  a  Utopian  screed. 

And  whoso  essays  to  engage 

With  dry  psychological  bran 
The  reader:    who  toils  for  his  wage 

On  verses  that  never  will  scan, 

Of  themes  to  verse  mat  a  propos, 
Leaves  heritage  none  to  his  seed 

Of  Fame.      And  'twere  vainer,  sweet  foe, 
To  write  a  Utopian  screed. 

The  pessimist  is  not  a  sage 

To  put  the  World  under  a  ban: 
Heroics  are  shallows  of  rage — 

To  rant  is  a  horrible  plan ! — 

The  rhapsodist,  yet  doth  he  so ! 
A  fig  for  their  air-castle  creed, 
*     Who  all  their  best  talents  bestow 
To  write  a  Utopian  screed! 


My  Prince,  to  all  lengths  do  they  go, 

And  sates  with  fool's  gold  each  his  greed, 

Who  Reason  and  Right  overthrow 
To  write  a  Utopian  screed. 


»7f 


BALLADE  OF  THE  REVIEWER 

I've  read  critiques  for  many  years 

All  in  an  easy-going  way; 
The  serious,  that  move  to  tears, 

The  truly  heartening  and  gay. 

And  I  have  marvelled  (as  you  may) 
That  volumes  come   trom  every  source 

Which  bring  this  estimate  in  play: 
"His  latest  book's  a  tour  deforce!'1'' 

If  faint  praise  damns,  as  it  appears, 

To  what  does  overpraise  betray? 
'T would  seem  that  the  reviewer  fears 

Against  bad  writing  to  inveigh. 

One  recently — to  my  dismay — 
A  'maiden  effort'  to  endorse, 

Wrote:  "Here's  an  author  come  to  stay, 
His  latest  book's  a  tour  de  force!" 

A  tale  of  travel  in  Algiers 

As  prosy  as  the  badger's  gray; 
A  'verse  collection'  hinting  shears, 

A  'sea  romance'  as  dry  as  hay! 

Of  politics  a  warped  survey, 
A  "Dissertation  on  Divorce"- 

I  read  of  each  in  this   array: 
"His  latest  book's  a  tour  de force!'1'' 


Golf  weather:      Copy  due  to-day; 

None  ready — but  he  plays,  of  course! 
Knowing  'twill  be  quite  safe  to  say: 

"His  latest  book's  a  tour  deforced' 


BALLADE  OF  CURRENT  FICTION 

In  the  Gulliver  days  of  my  youth, 

(O  the  Ear  on  was  dear  to  me,  too!) 
I  heard  people  pair  fiction  and  truth 

In  a  figure  familiar  to  you. 

The  deduction  was  sound,  that  I  knew, 
But  I  say,  fearing  no  contradiction, 

With  a  current  romance  in  review, 
Truth  no  longer  is  stranger  than  fiction ! 

Time  was  when  I'd  given  a  tooth 

For  a  tale  of  the  West  —  of  the  Sioux 
•Or  Apache  —  that  thrilled  in  good  sooth 

As  no  fine  fancy  could,  through  and  through. 

Ah !  but  taste  that  much  favored  ragout — 
The  "Historical  Novel".      Its  diction 

And  chronology  prove,  both  askew, 
Truth  no  longer  is  stranger  than  fiction. 

Monte  Cristo  wrote  Dumas,  sans  ruth 

For  them  that  excitement  eschew; 
M.  Verne  piled  up  book-shelf  and  booth 

With  deep  mysteries  none  could  undue. 

But  'twas  not  till  the  still  growing  crew 
Of  biographers  brought  down  affliction 

That,  sighing,  we  fostered  the  view: 
Truth  no  longer  is  stranger  than  fiction. 


As  I  read  the  new  books  (for  I  do) 

Strong  and  stronger  becomes  my  conviction 

Despite  what  may  once  have  been  true, 
Truth  no  longer  is  stranger  than  fiction. 


176 


BALLADE  OF  THE  CONTEMPORANEOUS 
DRAMA 

Though  badly  involved  be  the  plot, 

The  action  deplorably  slow, 
The  sentiment  imbecile  rot, 

Your  Public  will  crowd  to  the  'show' 

And  make  it  the  veriest  'go' 
If  the  star  exploits  gowns  and  a  hat 

Designed  by  some  Frenchman  &  Co. 
The  Costume  Play's  where  we  are  at! 

A  man  may  O'Connor  *  a  lot 

Through  a  piece  whose  sanguineous  flow 

In  Bowery  parlance  is  'hot' 

And  shock  the  least  captious,  but  so 
He  wears  plumes  in  his  jaunty  chapeau, 

A  sword  at  his  side  and  all  that, 
His  row  is  dead  easy  to  hoe. 

The  Costume  Play's  where  we  are  at ! 

The  Play  with  a  Purpose  is  not 

The  power  it  was,  and  I  trow 
We've  each  mother's  son  clean  forgot 

The  Problems  discussed  con  and  pro. 

(Mostly  con!)      We're  at  present  aglow 
With  frippery  worship.      (It's  flat 

The  playwrights  are  out  for  the  'dough'  — 
The  Costume  Play's  what  they  are  at!) 


(Addressed  to  conscientious   but   unsuccessful  aspirants  for 
dramatic  honors.) 

It's  needless  to  have,  you  should  know, 

Your  lines  down  so  terribly  pat: 
More  care  on  your  dressing  bestow  ! — 

The  Costume  Play1 's  where  we  are  at ! 

*Reference  is  made  here  to  the  methods  of  James  Owen  O'Con 
nor,  one  of  New  York's  most  noted  (!)  Thespians. 

177 


BALLADE  OF  HER  BONBONNIERE 

Now  Cupid  said  he  pitied  my  lone  state, 

(\l^  freedom  envied  he,  else  I  mistrow!) 
And  bade  a  maiden  come  to  my  heart's  gate 

Pull  at  its  latch-string  hard,  nor  quarter  show. 

And  there  she  stands,  deep  in  disfavor's  snow! 
Her  brindled  locks  of  sometime  bleaching  hints, 

And  that  I  could  forgive  the  girl;  but  O 
Her  bonbonniere  is  filled  with  peppermints! 

I'm  not  o'er-eager  for  a  priest-bound  mate          [blow, 

While  twenties'  winds  from  Pleasure's  play-ground 
And  when  I  wed  no   Quakerish-sedate, 

Be-wimpled  prude  shall  mix  my  biscuit-dough ! 

This  Cupid' s-choice  wears  figured  frocks  that  throw 
In  shade  for  loudness  old-year  bed-quilt  chintz — 

And  that  I  could  forgive  the  girl;  but  woe! 
Her  bonbonniere  is  filled  with  peppermints ! 

Imagine  sitting  at  a  play  with  Kate. 

(That  is  her  name.)      You  hear  a  smothered  "pho!' 
Mouchoir  to  face  your  neighbor  sits,  distrait, 

While  Kitty  munches  on  and  doesn't  know. 

I  might  forget  in  time — a  year  or  so — 
The  sad  illusion  of  her  cheeks'  false  tints: 

This  is  the  straw  that  bends  the  camel  low: 
Her  bonbonniere  is  filled  with  peppermints! 


Dan  Cupid,  bundle  up  your  darts  and  go! 

And  prithee  take  the  damsel  with  you,   since 
I  cannot  love  her  if  I  will  or  no — 

Her  bonbonniere  is  filled  with  peppermints! 


178 


BALLADE  OF  BUSINESS  LETTERS 

Dear  Sir  (or  Sirs)  : — they're  started  so — 

Your  valued  favor  of —  (the  date)  — 
Has  come  to  hand.      We  give  below 

Our  prices,  and  beg  leave  to  state 

Upon  the  terms  you  indicate 
Your  order  will  (no  ifs  or  ands!) 

Receive  attention  adequate. 
Awaiting  your  esteemed  commands, — 

Dear  Sir: —  (or  Sirs,  if  there's  a  Co.)  — 

To-day  we're  very  pleased  to  slate 
Your  kind  commission.      Goods  will  go 

A  month  hence  by  the  fastest  freight. 

We  trust  you  will  not  hesitate 
To  order  in  our  other  brands — 

Each  one  is  better  than  its  mate! 
Awaiting  your  esteemed  commands, — 

Dear  Sir  (or  Sirs)  :      Please  let  us  know 

How  long  we  must  anticipate 
The  payment  of  account  you  owe, 

Now  long  past  due.      While  we  should  hate 

(Collection  to  accelerate) 
The  matter  in  our  lawyers'  hands 

To  place — we  cannot  longer  wait ! 
Awaiting  your  esteemed  commands, — 


Prince,  ballads'  burdens  celebrate 
Themes  sumless  as  the  Ocean's  sands: 
Trade,  one  refrain  sings  early,  late, — 
"Awaiting  your  esteemed  command  ." 


BALLADE  OF  AGE  AND  YOUTH 

I'm  forty  past.      There  is  a  tinge  of  gray 
Upon  my  beard  that  tonics  can't  displace; 

And  as  I  shaved  to — yes,  it  was  to-day, 
The  mirror  hinted  to  my  very  face 
That  I  am  aging;  eke  that  it  could  trace 

Crowfeet  at  either  eye;  I  should  be  told! 

But  while  this  heart  of  mine  keeps  its  young  pace 

"My  glass  shall  not  persuade  me  I  am  old!" 

I'm  portly  grown;  but  not  too  stout  to  play 

An  inning  now  and  then;  can  bag  a  brace 
Of  any  feathered  things  that  come  my  way; 

Or  take  a  five-bar  gate  upon  the  chase. 

For  me  there's  still  excitement  in  a  race; 
Nor  have  I  yet  begun  to  count  my  gold — 

Until  I  cannot  tell  the  deuce  from  ace, 
"My  glass  shall  not  persuade  me  I  am  old!" 

I'm  grown  a  trifle  stiff — a  stick,  some  say  — 

(My  gaiters  have  grown  harder  to  unlace  !) 
But  manage  still  to  mount  and  ride  away 

In  saddle  or  a-wheel  with  old-time  grace. 

And  I  can  pirouette  if  I've  the  space, 
Or  waltz  till  Bud's  mama  is  prone  to  scold; 

Can  flirt  a  very — well,  in  any  case, 
"My  glass  shall  not  persuade  me  I  am  old!" 


She  owns  to  twenty-three,  Ah,  fickle,  base! 

Who  jilted  me,  as  many  years  grown  cold. 
Time,  while  you  sour  her  with  no  wry  grimace, 

"My  glass  shall  not  persuade  me  /  am  old!" 


BALLADE  OF  SNOBS 
{Irregular} 

He  brings  his  garb  over  the  ocean 

That  some  Cockney  hack  has  created; 
Ar.l  cherishes,  somehow,  a  notion 

Broadway  should  not  be  cultivated. 

The  while  Cousin  Snip,  much  elated, 
Ships  his  tweeds  as  ill-cut  as  you  please, — 

Ah!  how  would  its  dainties  be  rated 
If  Dresden  were  not  overseas? 

Madame,  her  soap,  salts,  perfume,  lotion, 
Gowns,  lingerie,  hats  overweighted; 

The  missal  that's  half  her  devotion, 

(By  some  frowsy  Celt  consecrated,)  — 
The  head  of  her  house,  dissipated, 

She  must  needs  go  abroad  for  all  these! 
Ah!  how  would  its  dainties  be  rated 

If  Dresden  were  not  overseas? 

Your  girl,  Sir,  will  sip  no  love-potion 

Or  home-make,  and  yonder's  mis-mated. 
My  boy  shows  a  deal  of  emotion 

If  here  he  must  be  educated. 

And  we,  you  and  I,  have  debated 
Our  Land's  right  to  any  degrees, — 

Ah!  how  would  its  dainties  be  rated 
If  Dresden  were  not  overseas? 


Europa,  your  trap  is  well-baited: 

We  swallow  both  hook  and  the  cheese! 

Ah!  how  would  its  dainties  be  rated 
If  Dresden  were  not  overseas? 


181 


BALLADE  OF  A  MODERN  WITCH 

(Irregular^) 

I'll  warrant  you  Kate  is  a  witch, 
For  when  she  so  much  as  displays 

A  dimple  I've  straightway  a  stitch 

Somewhere  near  my  heart  that  dismays, 
And  pains  that  no  ointment  allays, 

Nor  lotion,  nor  liniment  nips — 
It's  well  she's  too  late  for  the  gaze 

Of  Endicott,  Bradstreet  and  Phips! 

I'll  warrant  you  Kate  is  a  witch 

Though  'gainst  all  weird  things  she  inveighs. 
My  hopes  to  their  uttermost  pitch 

Her  eyes,  if  she  wills  it,  can  raise: 

Or  dash  them,  if  so  she  essays, 
To  depths  of  eternal  eclipse 

As  Stygian  dark  as  the  ways 
Of  Endicott,  Bradstreet  and  Phips. 

I'll  warrant  you  Kate  is  a  witch 

In  spite  of  her  positive  nays. 
And  still  with  each  twinge  and  each  twitch 

Her  craft  takes  a  pleasanter  phase. 

Whatever  in  me  this  betrays, 
In  truth  of  romance  it  quite  strips 

The  most  undesirable  bays 
Of  Endicott,  Bradstreet  and  Phips. 

Prince,  if  in  the  old  Salem  days 

As  Kate's,  there  were  pleas  from  such  lips, 
I  can't  say  enough  in  dispraise 

Of  Endicott,  Bradstreet  and  Phips! 


182 


BALLADE  PENSOROSO 

Oh !  dreary  twelvemonth  that  has  crept 

With  laggard  steps  the  seasons  through, 
Thy  cruel  clouds  have  coldly  kept 

Their  sweeter  side  close  from  my  view. 

Within  thy  skies  no  tender  blue, 
No  dancing  sunlight  on  the  bay, — 

As  when  thou  dawned,  my  grief  is  new, 
My  Love  is  dead  a  year  to-day. 

With  no  dear  joy  my  heart  has  leapt 

As  in  old  time  'twas  wont  to  do: 
No  flow'rs  on  May's  young  bosom  slept 

With  redolence  and  charm  of  hue; 

And  June  was  garlanded  in  rue. 
Mid- August's  brightest  days  were  gray, 

And  with  each  hour  my  sorrow  grew. 
My  Love  is  dead  a  year  to-day. 

Then  autumn's  dreadful  tempests  swept 
Across  her  grave,  where  sombre  yew 

And  writhing  willow  groaned  and  wept 
In  trist  accord  with  me.      Less  true 
Hadst  thou  been,  bleeding  heart,  say  who 

Would  merrier  be  than  I?      Yet,  nay  ! 
Beat  loyal  on,  true  hearts  are  few  ! 

My  Love  is  dead  a  year  to-day. 

Friend,  naught  with  brightness  can  endue 
Th'  incessant  winter  of  my  way: 

Nor  light  I  seek,  nor  mirth  pursue, — 
My  Love  is  dead  a  year  to-day. 


183 


BALLADE  OF  THE  SNOWDROP 

"Out    of   the  snow,   the  snowdrop — out  of  death  comes 

life." 
After  everness  of  days 

White  with  fleece  from  countless  bales 
Piled  breast-high  along  the  ways 

Shroud-like, — when  the  wind  bewails 

Earth's  dead  glory, — loud  All  Hails 
Greet  not  least  of  God's  dear  gifts, 

This,  whose  promise  never  fails, 
Pale,  sweet  snowdrop  'tween  the  drifts. 

Bloom-deep  boughs  and  budding  sprays; 

Quick  release  of  snow-bound  swales; 
Glad,  new  notes  of  woodland  praise, 

Green-clad  groves  and  gentle  gales: 

Summer  light  on  silver  sails, — 
These  it  promises  and  shifts 

From  the  heart  all  wintry  ails, 
Pale,  sweet  snowdrop  'tween  the  drifts. 

Harbinger  of  earthly  Mays; 

Symbol  of  celestial  vales, 
And  the  life  One's  blest  hands  raise 

From  the  dark  of  Death's  chill  gaols: 

Spirit  in  the  gloom  that  quails 
Reach  your  lute  and  close  its  rifts, 

Here  is  come  that  Hope  entails, — 
Pale,  sweet  snowdrop  'tween  the  drifts. 

Dear  my  sister,  graveyard  pales 

Lose  their  awe  when  winter  lifts 
And  the  new  life's  sign  unveils, — 

Pale,  sweet  snowdrop  'tween  the  drifts. 


1*4 


BALLADE  OF  THE  EVERGREEN  AND    TRUE 
FRIENDSHIP 

Now  to  the  rigors  of  this  aguish  plain 

Who  will  address  a  verse  of  worshipment? 

Whose  winds  are  Mistral-wild,  and  whose  slant  rain 
Is  keen  and  cold  as  summer  show'rs  are  gent: 
Whose  brook,  a  wanton  and  incontinent, 

Intrigues  with  Fresco,  though  late  did  she  shine 

With  Sunbeam's  warmest  kiss.      Who  do  incline 
To  sing  this  widowed  heath,  shent  of  all  sheen? 

None?   None  will  do  this?      Then  the  joy  be  mine — 
There  is  our  Friendship's  type,  the  evergreen. 

It  was  but  yesternight,  inconstant  swain, 

That  you  the  frail,  blue  myosotis  sent 
Enfolded  with  a  gushing  quatorzain 

Unto  your  newest  dear,  yet  is  it  spent, 

And  you  the  ardor  of  your  runes  repent, 
Though  whea  you  wrote,  fret  did  you  and  repine 
Because  you  could  not  promise  in  each  line 

Eternal  truth.      And  this  was  but  yestreen ! 
Fit  emblem  of  your  faith,  this  faded  sign! 

There  is  our  Friendship's  type, — the  evergreen. 

Knights  of  idlesse  who  dominate  Cockaigne, 

And  who  indenizen  the  vast  extent 
Yclept  Bohemia,  you  do  profane 

The  holy  name  of  Friendship  that  invent 

A  chance  to  call  it  where  you  most  frequent: 
You,  whose  best  joy  is  all  cocottes  and  wine, 
Pledge  sweet  good-fellowship  in  bitter  Rhine, 

Then  in  an  hour  you  curse  the  cup  and  quean! 
What  symbol  has  this  fellowship  divine? 

There  is  our  Friendship's  type, — the  evergreen. 

Time,  crave  we  this,  who  owed  you  much  lang  syner 
To  ever  kneel  before  a  spotless  shrine 

To  honor  consecrate  and  candor  clean. 
That  we  may  tell  it  of  the  constant  pine — 

There  is  our  Friendship's  type,  the  evergreen! 

185 


BALLADE  OF  THE  SONG  AND  THE  PLAINT 

Where  comes  Orsino  of  a  tristful  mien, 

Cheeks  wan  with  languishment  and  fingers  cold, 

To  voice  his  love  anew  in  dole  and  threne, — 
Mark  you,  where  comes  Orsino  unconsoled, 
None  stay  to  hear  his  bitter  grievance  told; 
But  flee  in  haste  his  rueful  presence,  lest 
His  low  lament  disquiet  ev'ry  breast. 

Unwisest  swain  is  he  who  woos  his  saint 
With  threnodies  full  of  his  heart's  unrest: 

Who  loves  the  song  whose  burden  is  a  plaint? 

Mark  you  the  sweet  young  year  whose  skirts  of  green 
Are  stitched  with  harebell  blue  and  crowfoot  gold: 

Is  there  a  churl  who  can  so  much  misween 
As  think  her  fairer  when  she  has  grown  old 
And  all  her  rivers  sigh?     When  winds  o'er-bold 
The  good  trees  ravish,  desecrate  the  nest 
Of  shiv'ring  birds  and  sough  their  sorriest? 

Give  me  of  Maying  measures,  dulcet-faint, 
These  of  all  twelvemonth  melodies  are  best: 

Who  loves  the  song  whose  burden  is  a  plaint? 

Wherefore,  my  poet,  is  thy  pen  so  keen 
To  write  of  tragedies?     And  ye  who  hold 

Euterpe  first  of  all  the  Nine,  ye  glean 

What  good,  what  pleasure  of  the  dirge  ye  scrolled? 
Men  love  not  tears,  nor  knells  for  being  tolled ! 
Go  emulate  the  thrush  who  have  transgressed 
And  given  monody  for  mirth!     A  pest 

Be  to  the  knave  whose  grief  knows  no  restraint ! 
Sing  us  a  ditty  that  is  full  of  jest: 

Who  loves  the  song  whose  burden  is  a  plaint? 

Prince,  'tis  as  you  have  said,  we  all  attest. 
The  minstrel  should  not  leave  us  sore  distressed : 

The  world  with  woe  is  all  too  well  acquaint ! 
He  surely  of  a  de'il  is  possessed 

Who  loves  the  song  whose  burden  is  a  plaint. 

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